Trolls in the Hamptons

by Celia Jerome

  I fetched the last of the wine. I needed it, even if it gave me a headache. And how long could Susan and Van sit with Mrs. Abbottini anyway? Didn’t old ladies and cops and chemo patients need their rest?

  Grant turned down a glass, making me feel scuzzy for wanting a drink. I took one sip and set it aside. “It’s growing late,” I hinted.

  He ignored the hint. “Do you recall a few years back when a young woman from Paumanok Harbor got pregnant?”

  “Which one? Paumanok girls get knocked up regularly.” Which was another reason I didn’t have high regard for the place where I’d spent every summer of my life.

  “This one would have been younger than Susan. Her name was Tiffany. Tiffany Ryland.”

  “I remember the story. She claimed she’d been drugged and raped, but they never found the guy, so no one believed her. Typical backwoods small-town thinking.”

  “According to the record, she decided to have the child, but her parents refused to support her decision, or an infant. Relatives in Montauk took her in. Tiffany gave birth to a son, but the baby was not right. Nicholas did not thrive, he would not play, and he did not speak. Social services had him to speech therapists and specialists. They declared him autistic. But he understood when spoken to, and he developed a language of his own, one no one else could understand. Tiffany’s mother tried to get him declared a ward of the state because Tiffany was so young, but Tiffany was a good mother.”

  “Better than hers was,” I said, outraged on that poor girl’s behalf.

  Grant ignored the interruption, too. “Then someone’s great-aunt from Ireland, over for a wedding, heard him babble. She thought she heard traces of Gaelic, which neither he nor Tiffany nor the Rylands had ever spoken. She talked to one of the transfer schoolteachers, who convinced the young mother to take the boy to England, to the Royce Institute. People there searched every old record and document, and sure enough, Nicholas spoke a smattering of Gaelic, but mixed with the ancient eldritch tongue. No one alive had ever heard it spoken, or understood its nuances, but the child was obviously a crossbreed. The children of Unity are born speaking their language, understood by all without the divisive dialects found on our side. The scientists recorded every syllable little Nicky spoke, in hopes of establishing a vocabulary, a primer, a way to communicate better with him and others like him. What if autistic children were not defective, but were atavisms, or products of some hidden DNA? But the boy was kidnapped before the research could produce any results.”

  “Most likely by some animal rights organization, for treating the boy like a lab rat.”

  Grant frowned at me. “Nicky was treated like a prince. His health improved, and he learned to laugh and play. He was stolen away from the car crash that killed his mother.”

  “Now that you say it, I did hear about that. ‘Local handicapped boy disappears while abroad.’ The accident made the nightly news.”

  “It was no accident. The car had been tampered with. Someone wanted that child.”

  “I think the authorities questioned my grandmother and my aunt about Tiffany’s mother in case she had him.”

  “No, Alma Ryland did not want anything to do with the boy. She called him a freak, a disgrace. She’d not have stolen him, and I doubt she knew his value as a ransom prize. The woman did not grieve for poor dead Tiffany, letting the Royce Institute pay for burial in England. She did accept a big check from them, to renounce any familial rights to the child, should he be found.”

  “I think she moved to the trailer park in Springs. Mom saw her name once in the local paper. DUI.” I don’t know why my mother thought I’d be interested in the local gossip, but it was something for us to talk about without arguing.

  “We keep an eye on her,” Grant said. “She quit AA years ago.”

  I pushed the wineglass farther away.

  “The boy is not there.” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a picture of a little boy, perhaps three or four years old. Then he showed me a drawing of what Nicky Ryland might look like now that he was eight. “We’re been looking for him for five years.”

  Both pictures depicted a waif, a thin, pale child with big, sad eyes, the kind you wanted to pick up and hug, or ask if he was lost. “The Verbalizer.”

  “Precisely. You see the troll, but Nicky Ryland can speak to him. Maybe he called your Fafhrd because he is so unhappy in his captivity. Maybe he was forced to send a message? We do not know. The only clue we have is from one of the telepaths, a missing person locator who has worked on the case for years. She thought Nicky might be in Manhattan. That’s when we started paying more attention to you.”

  “I still say Lou is the bad guy. Maybe he has the boy locked up in that basement apartment of his. I never see anyone else come or go.”

  “Lou does not have any children, and he was placed here to watch you.”

  “He stares.”

  “He foiled three attempts to kidnap you in the last seven months.”

  “And no one told me?” I refilled my wineglass and to hell with the guaranteed headaches. To hell with what Mr. DUE thought.

  “Your father tried to tell you how dangerous the city was; your mother keeps urging you to England, or back to Paumanok Harbor where others can watch over you. Your grandmother adds a dash of protection to the herbal teas she sends you. Others who smell danger live nearby, but publicly unnamed for their own safety. As a final precaution, we asked Mrs. Abbottini to let us put a camera in her hallway. We tried to let you live your life.”

  “And now?”

  “Now you’ll have more observers, not that you’ll notice them, waiting to see if the Enhancer approaches. We need to know who he is, what he wants. We need to rescue the boy.”

  “How?”

  “We’ll figure that out once we know where he is. We think you’re the key. The boy, the troll, and you are all connected, so we find one, we’ll find the others, and the bastard who stole Nicky.”

  “And save the world.”

  His mouth twitched, almost a smile. “And save the world. So I stick to you like glue.”

  My mind drew a really good picture of him plastered to me, naked of course, our bodies touching in all the right places, his strength to my softness. And he’d damn well be smiling.

  He couldn’t be psychic or he’d be blushing right now instead of explaining that Lou was watching when Grant wasn’t. Everyone had pictures of the boy, to be on the lookout. No one knew about the troll. “No one,” he repeated. “Other than in your story.”

  My mind was not following his directives, only his lips moving. “You stick to me like glue?”

  “As much as possible. I fought hard for this job.”

  “You had to fight to be assigned this case?”

  “Of course. I could wrap up the kidnapping, bring a valuable wild talent back to the fold, destroy a major threat, and rescue a gorgeous maiden, all in one shot. That’s what I call worth fighting for.”

  He thought me gorgeous. And worth rescuing. I was touched, until I thought to ask, “How many of you are there in your DUE agency?”

  “Actual agents, as opposed to the thousands of Institute graduates who are always ready to lend their talents? Eleven in the city right now. Five are women, three are married, one is gay. That leaves me and Lou to watchdog you.”

  “You must have fought hard. Lou hates me.”

  He shook his head. “Lou admires you. You fought for what you believe, without giving in to family pressure. You’ve made the most of your talents without even knowing them. And you know martial arts. You foiled one would-be kidnapping yourself, by kickboxing the skeg in the, ah, privates. Unfortunately he got away before Lou could question him. But Lou buys all your books for the kids in the neighborhood. He thinks you hung the stars. I’ll settle for the moon.”

  Wow. “Um, how do you intend to stay close?”

  He put the pictures back in his pocket, not looking at me. “Well, I could move in.”

  “Not in this lifetime
.”

  “Every day is a new life. Just ask your cousin. But you got rid of the dickhead just in time for me to play your new boyfriend. That way no one could question why I’m hanging around.”

  That idea would be bad for my heart. There was no getting past the fact that the guy turned me on. He had to feel that spark when he held my hand, or when our fingers brushed over the photograph. Pure animal magnetism, I told myself, which I did not intend to encourage like a mare in season. Unless, and here was a new danger, he was using mind control on me. I wouldn’t put it past that whole Royce abracadabra academy to use some kind of hypnosis to bend me to their will. Sure, once we were lovers, I’d be more pliable to whatever shady purpose Grant intended.

  No way was that going to happen, attraction or not. This guy was a wanderer, if not a con artist. He was not the steady, reliable, no fooling around kind of man I wanted. Why, if Grant didn’t have a girl in every tele-port, I’d—No. He was crazy, that’s all.

  “Or I could move in with Mrs. Abbottini, claiming to be a long-lost nephew.”

  Definitely crazy.

  “Just think about it all. Call me in the morning.”

  I couldn’t find a pad or pen to write down his phone number. They were all hidden under my bed.

  “Don’t worry. Just think about me and, poof, I’ll appear.”

  My jaw must have dropped because I could hear the joints crack.

  “Just kidding.” He produced a card and put it into my hand. “Until then, think about what I said. And please, try not to think about the troll. If you do work on your story, just don’t put in any more creatures of fantasy. Remember, ogres are hell to deal with. And dragons—Well, there’s no way we could stop the panic then.”

  So I dreamt of dragons all night, blue-eyed flame-throwers that made me burn.

  CHAPTER 10

  FOR ONCE SUSAN DIDN’T ASK any questions the next morning. I’d gone to bed by the time she and Van got back from Mrs. Abbottini’s last night. She called out something about a tie ballgame that lasted twelve innings, but I pretended to be asleep, so she tip-toed off to her own bedroom.

  Maybe Van had told her not to make too much of the British agent’s visit. Grant had asked me not to mention him for security reasons, the same reason he’d given for why I shouldn’t discuss the boy, the troll, or any part of the fantastical yarn he’d spun. As if I would. Who’d believe such a pack of lies?

  Maybe Susan was subdued because she was too concerned with the results of her tests to care about my involvement in an international investigation, or my part in the Manhattan mayhem. Maybe she just knew I’d lie. Either way, I was glad not to have to answer her probing queries. Lord knew I was doing enough mental gymnastics myself.

  I wish I’d thought to make Grant jump through a couple of hoops last night, when I might have gotten answers, but I was too bemused by the man and his, well, manliness. What seemed possible, even logical at night appeared foolish, implausible, unbelievable by the light of day. That or whatever spell he’d cast on me had worn off.

  I should have asked exactly what his connection was to the Royce Institute. For a government agent, a public servant—although I could not imagine him as anyone’s lackey—he seemed to know a lot about the workings of a private, secretive, mind-warping organization.

  I also wished I understood why I was so attracted to him, knowing he was bonkers and deluded, if not outright crooked. I wasn’t happy to be so fickle, either. A few days ago I thought Van was hot. Now I did not mind that he and Susan seemed to be making a go of it. Watching twelve innings of baseball? Give me a little more credit than that. I knew Mrs. Abbottini fell asleep by ten o’clock every night.

  Susan was a big girl now, so if the cop made her happy, that was fine. She deserved a good time. And if he hurt her, I’d break his kneecaps.

  Before Van entered the picture, I was mostly satisfied with Arlen, who did not complicate my life in the least, just the way I wanted a relationship.

  Talk about complications! Just thinking about Grant tied my stomach in knots and put my brains in a salad spinner. Now I did not trust my taste, or my hormones. Or him. The guy turned me on, okay? That did not mean he told the truth. But why would he weave such a convoluted, bizarre story, and why pick on me?

  If, and I was only speculating, if half of what Grant said was true, then I was not losing my mind. If, again supposing this Unity thing occurred, neither of us was ready for Bellevue. I was not merely imagining a troll that no one else could see; Fafhrd really existed, although in the wrong place; and Agent Thaddeus Grant was going to save the world.

  Sure.

  Setting aside my skepticism, I had to ask how? I was in novel-plotting mode while Susan hogged the only bathroom in the apartment. I had to ask the what-if questions to see where they led. What was the troll here for? To rescue the boy who’d called him? To find a play-mate? Fafhrd was young. I realized I’d never considered the maturity of my troll, just assuming the species never grew older. But they had to have been children once.

  Thinking of how Fafhrd played with the crane and splashed in the puddles made me lower his estimated age. So if a troubled friend called out to him, kind of like Facebook across the ether, in his own language, then he’d break laws and cross boundaries, like any adolescent with a new driver’s license or a forged ID.

  He had to be brave to do what he’d done, if foolhardy. He did not seem terribly clever, but, hell, he was a troll, a young one, and all kids were reckless idiots.

  On the other hand, what if he had been dragged into this non-magical sphere willy-nilly by Nicky’s words and my drawings? Damn. That meant I was responsible for getting him back to where he belonged.

  He liked water. Why? Didn’t his homeland have streams and rivers? Or did Fafhrd feel dirty in the city, with the grit of the streets on his stony skin? Or maybe he thought Nicky was thirsty, or near water. The East River wasn’t that far away from my block.

  Grant thought the boy had to be close to me for the barriers between the worlds to disappear. Whoever stole Nicky knew that, too, if the Department of Unexplained Events theory was correct, and if I’d been targeted for kidnapping in fact. The plotter knew where I lived, what I did for a living.

  Thinking about the Evil Genius was too scary. Besides, I would have known if someone tried to stuff me in the trunk of a car or anything. And I would have noticed a strange kid talking in ancient elf or whatever Grant called the language. Besides, if the plan had been to get a troll to cross over, or get the barriers down, the goal was already accomplished, but centaurs weren’t moving into Central Park.

  So the whole theory fell apart like a house of cards. It was not true, none of it. The troll sightings were hallucinations, creativity gone wild. Like Arlen said, I had too much imagination. The whole mishmosh was a giant hoax. Literally.

  That was it! I bet Arlen put Grant up to it, out of spite. There was no such agency, no threats to my safety or sanity. Hell, the English accent might be a fake, and Lou was just an old curmudgeon. Now that I thought of it, I’d never seen Officer Donovan Gregory in uniform, either.

  While Susan was in the shower—still—I called Arlen to complain.

  “Me? Hire an actor to play a cop? Listen, Willow, you’re not that special.” He hung up.

  I should have known Arlen’d be too cheap to spend the money on such an elaborate scam. At least I wasn’t his dear anymore.

  No matter how much I did or didn’t believe of Grant’s witches’ brew, the fact was that a little boy had disappeared after the supposed car accident. If he was still alive, Nicky Ryland deserved to be found and returned to his rightful family. If not that awful grandmother, then people who would love him and care for him and help him cope in the only world we had.

  I took a drawing pad out from under the bed and drew Nicky into my story. I changed the police sketch some, gave him longer hair and higher cheekbones. I dressed him in a school uniform, but he didn’t look right, so I put him in jeans and sweatshirt.
No. Pajamas? A soccer uniform? A kilt? Damn, the bastard who stole him couldn’t be hiding him as a girl, could he? I settled on loose clothing, as if whoever bought the clothes did not really know the boy or his size. I made Nicky skinny, short for his age, with big eyes that had fear in them. Poor baby.

  Why can’t you talk to anyone? I asked the final sketch. Why don’t you go to the authorities?

  Grant said Nicky understood English, but only spoke in what was now known to be one of the most complicated languages ever studied. The experts in England thought half of it was in mind-to-mind communication, so of course no one could translate. That was it. Nicky was speaking English, but only to people who could receive telepathy.

  Sure. Still, I tried to concentrate, to listen for him, but all I heard was my shower running out of hot water.

  When Susan was finally ready, I put my drawings and notes aside, hurried through my own preparations to meet the day—and any good-looking secret agents who might be acting as bodyguard.

  I took Susan to a fancy Lexington Avenue spa for the works. Hair, face, feet, body wraps, massage. On me. It took most of the day, and most of my month’s income after taxes and rent, but it was worth it. She looked fantastic with the trim and guaranteed safe highlights in her hair. The makeup, which cost more than I spent on mine in a year, put the color back in her complexion that the long winter of treatments had leeched away. She felt better, too, which we celebrated by buying tops for both of us in that new bamboo fabric. Soft and organic and sustainable—what more could a concerned consumer ask? I asked for a cream-colored one; Susan chose blue.

  She wanted to cook a meal for Mrs. Abbottini, and Van, I suspected, so we shopped the produce stands for fresh ingredients and the gourmet delis for everything else. I did not see Lou following us, or anyone else who was supposed to be sticking like glue. Then again, no one accosted us either.