No matter how she tried to silence the memory, the louder and sharper it grew, until it seemed that Bertie was again in front of her, prepared to reveal the truth about Dr. Lucusta. But as soon as Bertie had spoken those first cryptic words, the woman with the stick had suddenly come upon them, demanding to know what they were discussing. Bertie did not speak again all that evening.
So Clara was left to decipher the phrase on her own: Drusilla is not human. Such insults were familiar to Clara; she had often heard people call each other “monster” or “inhuman,” but something about Bertie’s words was much more disturbing.
Yet Clara could not explain why.
~
“Timmy was last seen in front of the school,” the policeman explained to Lucy. “He used to walk along the sidewalk to the bus stop, but in recent months he’s been taking the shortcut through the woods. He came down this trail, but he never reached the bus stop.”
Lucy glanced at the trail, just behind the bus stop booth. The trail began at an opening in the woods, and ended somewhere on the other side. There were plenty of bushes and trees where someone could have hidden and waited. She turned to the left of the bus stop, where the river flowed. Just across the water lay the Pangaean territory, crowded with hundreds of tower blocks.
“There are no footprints, except for Timmy’s shoes,” the policeman continued. “The kidnapper must have only been wearing socks. And there were no reports of a car parked nearby for any period of time; we have no idea where they might have gone.”
“Have any other children gone missing from this area?” Lucy asked.
“Yes. One other—another boy. Brian…something…oh, I don’t recall his last name. But he went missing forty years ago.”
Brian. Lucy instantly recognized the name from the MISSING poster, still taped to the wall of the subway car she used to ride. “Are there any similarities in the two incidents?” she asked aloud.
“I don’t know,” the policeman shrugged. “I haven’t read enough on Brian’s file. That case has been closed for decades now; he was listed as a runaway.”
The two cases were likely unrelated. But Lucy was not trying to find a connection between the kidnappings. She was thinking of Brian’s family, and how much suffering and pain they had endured all these years; some of the relatives were likely deceased by now. And every time another child went missing, it would be yet another Brian…another family left to suffer…another unknown fate. Other people would be concerned, for a little while: “sending thoughts and prayers,” and watching in horror as the media retold the story week after week. But then the thrill would fade; people would forget it ever happened.
But after it happens to you, you don’t forget, Lucy thought. You can’t forget.
“I need to know that other victim’s name,” she said.
“You mean that Brian kid? You can’t possibly think these two cases are related! They’re decades apart!”
“I know. But I just want to know his name.”
~
It was a dance at Geoffrey’s school: a very fancy affair, with catered foods and a large cake, but Geoffrey was not enjoying any of it. Most of his friends had hidden in the classrooms so they could smoke Fern Cigs, away from the teachers’ supervision. Geoffrey had taken solitary refuge at one of the large windows in the gym. The cold air chilled him somewhat, but it was far better than the suffocating fumes of Fern Cigs.
“Hello, Geffy,” a sultry voice said.
He turned.
It was Andromeda Wilson. She was about thirteen, with long blond curls and crystal blue eyes. She wore a short black dress and four-inch heels that would have better suited a thirty-year old. In her hand was a dark purple bottle.
She smiled.
I hate every one of her perfect teeth, Geoffrey thought bitterly.
“Come with me!” Andromeda cried. “I brought wine.”
Geoffrey frowned. “No thanks,” he said.
“The night is young!” Andromeda sang out. She leaned against the windowsill beside Geoffrey. “And you are young! Young people are supposed to be crazy, so let’s go be crazy together.” She laughed loudly.
He could smell the Fern Cig on her breath. “That stuff is going to kill you someday,” he grumbled.
“We put it in the ration boxes,” Andromeda hooted. “Why shouldn’t we get some too? I steal it from the packing house, and no one stops me—my dad runs the place.” She giggled stupidly.
“I don’t care what they say, it’s poison. I just know it.”
“I’m starving!” she grabbed a bowl of chips off the table and shoved a handful into her mouth. Drool oozed down the side of her face. She burst out giggling, and chips sputtered across the room.
“Andromeda,” Geoffrey said slowly, “don’t you ever think about where you’re going in life?”
“What?”
“Don’t you ever think about important things?”
“Ha!” Andromeda laughed, stuffing more chips in her mouth. “The only important thing now is having a good time—” a sudden gag caught her throat, and she bent over a trashcan.
Geoffrey quietly picked up a napkin and wetted it, and pressed it to her forehead. “If it doesn’t kill you first,” he mumbled. He carefully guided Andromeda to a nearby chair, and propped her up as best he could. He tried to pull the wine bottle from her hand, but she only held onto it tighter. “Let me call your parents,” he begged. “You’re not in any condition to stay here.”
Andromeda’s closed eyes flew open, blazing with rage. She struck Geoffrey across his jaw, so hard that he stumbled backwards. “I’ll stay as long as I friggin’ want, you damned scurus!” she shrieked.
Geoffrey barely heard her words. The room seemed to be spinning, and doubling, and stretching in several directions at once. He could feel a fresh bruise swelling along his jaw.
“You’re always ruining people’s fun!” Andromeda screamed. “You’re a curse on this planet! I oughta kill you! Right now! I shoulda done it yesterday!” She smashed the bottle against the wall, and brandished the blunt piece at Geoffrey. “I’m going to enjoy this,” she laughed hoarsely.
He scrambled backward along the floor, like a frightened mouse. “Andromeda, please! Be reasonable!”
“Oh, I am being reasonable!” she shrieked. “For the first time in my life!” she started to run towards him, but her drunken wobbling was no match for her heeled shoes. She crashed to the floor in a heap.
Geoffrey lay on the floor for several minutes, unsure how to react to this outburst. He was absolutely certain that if Andromeda had not passed out, she would definitely have killed him right there, without the slightest regret. He glanced at the wall, still dripping with the purple stain of wine.
It’s not just Andromeda, he realized. It’s all of them. They all want me dead.
~
The jury had returned. The sentence was in order.
The judge now held the papers in hand, prepared to read Father McCall’s sentence aloud. But he hesitated for a few moments, and glanced up at the TV cameras lined along the back wall of the courtroom. Millions of people were watching him at this moment, in their homes and at work, on the edge of their seats. The power was utterly intoxicating.
And then his eyes shifted down to Father McCall, standing at the bench below. The reverend’s eyes seemed to have sunken into his head, so that only two caverns of darkness gazed back at the judge.
“Father Andrew McCall,” the judge began, “the ladies and gentlemen of the jury find you guilty of murder in the first degree. You are hereby sentenced to life in prison, without possibility of parole.” He shut the folder, and gave a deep breath of satisfaction. Father McCall hung his head in shame, and his shoulders shivered with a stifled sob.
But suddenly the shoulders straightened, the head lifted, and the sunken eyes—still damp with tears of despair—now blazed with the fire of raw anger. “I maintain my innocence!” Father McCall shouted. “And I will do so until my dying day! I tort
ured no one, and I murdered no one. I do not know who killed that poor soul, and I do not know why they want to now destroy me as well. I can do nothing to reverse your unjust decision: you will imprison me and punish me as you see fit. But do not punish God! Do not punish those who yet cling to His Word! Do not distort His words of love for words of violence! I beg of you: Do not cast out God from your hearts. For if you abandon God, your body may live on, but your soul cannot withstand the separation from God. Nothing will ever fill that void. Only God can help you!”
~
“You are slower today, Clara,” Dr. Gilac remarked.
Clara had been summoned to the old man’s house again. This time, she received a gold medallion; the coin had belonged to the captain of a Spanish ship in the 15th century. “We tried to find that ship years ago,” the old man grumbled. “But that expedition failed; the boat was attacked by a vicious sea creature. Maybe you will have better luck.”
But Clara was having terrible luck. Now she had held the coin for a full minute, and still no visions were coming to her. “I…I’m sorry,” Clara mumbled.
“I apologize, dear sir,” Dr. Gilac said to the old man, bowing slightly. “It is normal that, with age, the ability to visualize atomic consciousness diminishes. But Clara is very skilled; she will get the information for you. Rest assured.”
The old man frowned impatiently.
Clara began to panic. She knew why the visions were not coming. It was because of what Bertie had told her about Drusilla; the terror was clouding her mind. She still did not understand what Bertie had meant by “Drusilla is not human,” and how that related to Dr. Lucusta’s malevolence. What had Dr. Lucusta and Drusilla done together that was so unspeakably evil?
“Focus!” Dr. Gilac snapped harshly.
She tried as hard as she could, but only the same images of terror flitted through her mind. Bertie’s stifled sobs…Drusilla on the hill, beckoning to the Outsider Family…Dr. Lucusta passing in the hallway…
“Idiot!” the old man cried, slamming his cane onto the floor. “Utterly useless! You’re fired!”
“No!” Geoffrey gasped.
Everyone, including Clara, looked at him in shock.
Ashamed, Geoffrey covered his mouth. “I-I mean, I’m sorry,” he faltered. He stared at the floor sheepishly. “Stupid girl,” he muttered.
Clara did not cry. She stood up and dropped the coin onto the couch. “Well, I see we’re finished here.”
“Don’t be absurd!” Dr. Gilac growled. “Now take back that coin, and get a vision on it.”
She picked up the coin, and took a seat. But she did not close her eyes. Instead, she gently fingered the coin. “You’ve already got so much,” she murmured thoughtfully. “Why do you need this treasure too?”
“Shut up,” snapped the old man. “Just do as you’re told.”
But Clara had only just begun. “When will it be enough for you?” she demanded. “When will you be content with what you’ve got? Are you just going to keep digging, taking, looting—”
“—Stop it!” the old man snapped.
“No!” Clara screamed. “No! I don’t want your ration boxes, or your housing, or any of it! I want something I made, something I can call my own, something that can get better than this! I don’t care about equality; I just want a choice!”
“Stop it!” the old man cried. His voice had grown weaker now, but more urgent.
“My mind isn’t yours!” Clara shrieked. “It’s mine! Mine! I’ll decide what I do with it! How I use it, when I use it—it’s not yours! It will never be yours!”
The old man opened his mouth to protest, but only a choking gasp emerged. His eyes bulged with terror, and he gripped his chest. He seemed ready to tumble to the floor.
Geoffrey leaped from his chair and darted towards the old man, catching him just before he hit the carpet. “Grandfather!” he cried. “Your nitrates—where are they? Tell me! Please!”
The old man pointed to his shirt pocket.
Geoffrey reached into the pocket and removed a single white tablet, which he shoved into the old man’s open mouth. Within moments, the old man began to breathe normally again as color flooded into his cheeks.
Clara could only stare in horror. As much as she despised the old man, she had never wanted to hurt him—much less murder him. She wanted only to destroy his power over her, and over the others, and to get as far away from him as possible. But now she felt as though she were no better than he.
The old man, for his part, was hardly concerned with Clara anymore. He had reached into his pants pocket and removed a capped syringe, filled with a clear yellow liquid, which he injected into his arm. “It should do the trick,” he murmured, leaning back against the couch comfortably. He shut his eyes. “Not so quick as the nitrates, but soon enough.”
They all sat in silence for a few long awkward moments, broken only by the sound of the old man’s deep, calm breathing. Suddenly Clara slumped forward in a faint.
~
As Clara collapsed, Geoffrey noticed Dr. Gilac pulling a syringe away from her arm. “What’s that?” Geoffrey demanded. “Did you just drug her?”
“Your grandfather prefers it,” Dr. Gilac said curtly.
As he picked up Clara and carried her from the room, Geoffrey watched in shock. They treat her like a robot, to be turned off and on as they need it.
To deprive a prisoner of his food was cruel enough, but to deprive him of his consciousness—it was far worse. Even Grandfather’s horses were treated better than Clara; at least those horses were free to roam the fields as they pleased—eating whatever they wanted, exploring whatever they chose.
“Such an uncooperative thing,” Grandfather grumbled. He shoved his empty syringe into his pocket. “Wasting my time! I pay good money for an employee, and then she doesn’t even carry out the task? It’s abominable what employees are coming to these days, Geoffrey! But you are younger and stronger than I. Hopefully, you will be able to handle these difficult people. Geoffrey? Did you hear me, boy?”
“Sorry. What?”
Grandfather sighed. “You didn’t hear a word I just said, Geoffrey! What ails you, boy? Is there trouble at school?”
Geoffrey shook his head. He stared at the fireplace, hoping that his grandfather would not ask further questions.
But Grandfather bent closer, and examined Geoffrey’s face intently. A knowing grin slowly spread across the old man’s face. “But of course! I’d know that look anywhere. So, who is she, Geoffrey?”
Geoffrey’s face reddened, but he kept his expression blank. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The girl, Geoffrey! Don’t be absurd! I know that look like the back of my hand. I had it once myself, you know, when I met your grandmother. (And a few times before that, too, but nevermind all that.) Go on, boy! Tell me who the girl is!”
It was no use trying to hide it any further. “All right, yes,” Geoffrey admitted. “There is somebody. But you would never approve.”
“Oh, hogwash! I’m not so particular as you think, Geoffrey! Is it that girl Andromeda Wilson? She is always calling here, asking about you. I always thought she was a bit old-looking for her age, and she talks like she’s thirty-five. But I could look past all that if you really care for her so.”
“It’s not Andromeda.” He sighed. “But I can’t tell you who it is.”
Grandfather huffed impatiently, but he did not ask further questions. He stood up. “Well, my boy, you know that I’m here for you. Love is a very difficult emotion, especially when you first encounter it. No one should have to face it alone.” He exited the room.
Geoffrey started to follow, but then—a small twinkle on the floor caught his eye. He glanced downward, just to the right of the doorway.
It was a hairpin.
Clara’s hairpin!
It must have fallen off when they dragged her away, he realized.
As soon as the door closed behind Grandfather, Geoffrey pounced upon th
e pin and stuffed it into his pocket.
~
“…And that was the most embarrassing display I have ever seen!” Dr. Gilac’s voice was yelling as Clara woke.
They had returned to Dr. Gilac’s office. At first Clara had forgotten what happened at the old man’s house; but slowly, it was coming back to her. The coin, the old man screaming…
“How could you have done this?” Dr. Gilac snapped. “After all the work I have invested in you, the abilities I developed in you—you just throw it all away?” he leaned back in his chair, and sighed with exhaustion. “Clara, I know what you did. I know that you read something.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clara said. “I didn’t—”
“—Oh, quit lying,” Dr. Gilac sighed tiredly. “You young people are always doing stupid things! You like disobeying; I don’t know why. But I do know that you read something. That’s why you couldn’t get the atomic reading today; your mind was clouded. Now, tell me. What did you read?”
“I didn’t—”
“—What did you read?”
Clara gulped. It was no use trying to hide her secret anymore. “It wasn’t something I read,” she murmured. She stared at the floor ashamedly. “It was something I heard. From Bertie.”
Dr. Lucusta rolled his eyes. “Bertie! Again! Why do you even bother listening to her? I’ve told you countless times, again and again, she is delusional! Not to be trusted!”
“She works in Dr. Lucusta’s lab,” Clara continued, as though Dr. Gilac had never interrupted her at all. “In his research on Public Thought.”
“Yes, that is correct.”
“But she said something else. Something about that singer, Drusilla.”
For a moment, Dr. Gilac’s eyes seemed to waiver slightly—the faintest of quivers—but the look disappeared so swiftly, Clara could not be certain she had seen it. “Yes, I know Drusilla,” he said briskly, leaning casually back his chair. “What about her?”
“Bertie said that Drusilla was not…human.”
Dr. Gilac sneered. “I suppose Bertie is just jealous of Drusilla’s enormous talent,” he said, shrugging. “But aren’t we all? Drusilla has the voice of a nightingale, the adoration of the Public, and the wealth of a princess. Of course Drusilla ‘isn’t human,’ because she’s a Wonder of the World.”
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