by Gregg Loomis
Then there had been the one time Wynton had been in the Reilly house, a cocktail party shortly after Reilly had finished some lengthy, if less-than-obvious, renovations. First, Wynton had noticed multiple locks on the doors, locks that were unlike any Wynton had ever seen before. A set of keys on a table in the hall had also been unique: they had been full of holes and indentations like Swiss cheese rather than the sort you had cut at the local hardware store. Paige had taken a wrong turn—at least that was what she claimed—on the way to the powder room and wound up in what must have been the master bedroom. Steel shutters, a door that was iron painted to look like wood. She swore she had seen surveillance cameras hidden in the shadows of the ceiling.
So the man liked his security.
Or made kinky movies.
Manfred had been in the house only minutes before Wynton sensed something between the little boy and his son. It wasn't exactly that Wynn-Three seemed to dislike his visitor. More like he was wary of him, an elk watching a distant pack of wolves. Wynn-Three made an obvious effort not to come within a couple of feet of his guest nor did he take his eyes off him.
If there was a problem, Manfred was oblivious to it. In Wynn-Three's room, he surveyed the contents of his host's toy chest with proprietary interest. Soon, Curious George's fire truck was going head to head with Bob the Builder's yellow earth mover with the moveable front scoop. Wynton watched the action, accompanied by the whirr of battery-powered motors.
It was too pretty a day to play inside, mechanical toys or not.
"Guys, why don't you go outside? There's a swing set in the backyard and Wynn got a pedal Jeep for Christmas you can take turns in up and down the driveway. Don't get in the street, though."
Reluctantly, the two small boys trooped out into the backyard.
Wynton returned to his pruning to the sound of children at play. From the intermittent attention he paid, the two boys were engaged in some sort of game that involved furious pedaling of the small replica Jeep up and down the pavement followed by a dash to the slide attached to the swing set. Whatever reservations Wynn-Three had about his playmate seemed to have vanished.
He had been working for a while when he heard the back door open. Stopping, shears in hand, he watched Paige walk across the yard with a tray carrying two plastic glasses and a pitcher.
"I made you guys some Kool-Aid," she announced, carefully balancing the tray on a swing. "Who wants some?"
The game forgotten, Manfred and Wynn downed one, then another glass before Manfred returned his to the tray. "Thank you very much."
Paige stooped to bring her face close to his. "I understand you speak German."
He nodded slowly with a child's reluctance to be any different from others. "Yes, ma'am."
"How do you say 'thank you' in German?"
"Danke schön."
"And how would you say, 'I like Kool-Aid'?"
Manfred shifted his weight, uncomfortable at the attention. "Ich habe Kool-Aid gern."
Paige was about to ask another question when something made Wynton's gaze shift to Wynn-Three. His son's eyes were wider than he had ever seen them, comically so, were it not for the terror on his face that froze him where he stood. The child was unaware he was holding his glass inverted, Kool-Aid spilling and streaking his pants blood red.
Manfred looked from Wynn to Paige and back again, his expression as puzzled as Wynn's was frightened.
"I think I go home now," Manfred said.
For the next few minutes, Paige's soothing words did little to comfort the quaking and tearful panic of the child in her arms. Wynton was frightened himself, worried some illness had mysteriously befallen his son. When it became clear that he was just badly frightened, Wynton checked the street, first for whatever might have given Wynn such a scare, and then for fear that some of the neighbors had seen his son terrified by a glass of Kool-Aid.
Half an hour later, Wynn had retreated to his room, eyes still red from weeping. Paige busied herself with a variety of mindless tasks, while Wynton slumped in his favorite chair and thumbed through the carcass of the Sunday Journal-Constitution.
Finally, he put the paper down. "What in the hell precipitated that?"
Paige shook her head, as bewildered as her husband. "Who knows? We both asked him and all we got was more tears. Maybe Mrs. Jennins was right, he does have some sort of psychological problem."
Unwilling to admit any son of his was even remotely susceptible to mental disorder, Wynton shook his head. "He's never done anything like that before. There's got to be another answer."
"If you're so sure, why don't you try talking to him?"
Wynton leveraged himself out of the chair. "Okay. I will."
When in his room, Wynn-Three usually turned the pages of his books, looking at pictures of stories read to him enough times to know them by heart. Or he played quietly with his toys. Now he sat silently in the middle of the floor.
"What are you doing, Wynn?" his father asked as soon as he reached the open door to his son's room at the top of the stairs.
"Nothin'."
For once that appeared to be accurate.
"Did Manfred do something? I mean, did he scare you in some way?"
Wynn thought about this for a long moment. "He said 'thank you' and 'I like Kool-Aid.'"
Wynton was used to getting answers from a three-year-old that made little sense. "He was just being polite. What's so scary about that?"
"I don' know."
Wynton was used to this response, too, usually when his son simply didn't want to answer. He sat on the floor in front of Wynn-Three, crossing his legs. "Look, you know your mother and I love you a lot. We're . . . we worry when you get scared."
Wynn-Three nodded.
"And . . ."
Something beside Wynn-Three caught his father's attention, a small white bear. Doodle Bear. A ten-inch teddy bear that came with washable colored markers. You could give Doodle Bear a big smile, add a moustache, tattoos, or whatever else you wanted. One cycle in the wash and Doodle Bear was a blank slate again. Today Doodle Bear was empty of expression but there was something on his arm, paw, or whatever you called a teddy bear's upper appendages.
Wynton picked it up.
A line consisting of what looked like an inverted "V" and the numbers four, two, five, and what looked like a seven with a cross member. Beneath was a triangle.
Wynton held the bear up. "Did you do this?"
Wynn-Three shook his head.
Stupid question. Wynn-Three couldn't write yet. That day-care center at the cathedral had pledged to teach him his letters and numbers, but he hadn't been there long enough.
"Manfred wrote this?"
Again, a shake of the head, no.
Another pointless question. Wynton had watched the two boys while they were in the room. Neither had touched Doodle Bear.
Then who?
CHAPTER 13
That Evening
WAFFLES WERE THE TRADITIONAL SUNDAY NIGHT supper of the Charles family. No pots and pans to be washed, just clean the waffle iron and dump the rinsed-off plates into the dishwasher. It was Wynn-Three's favorite meal. Tonight, though, the little boy, bathed and clad in his favorite Spider-Man pajamas, was doing little more than moving food around his plate.
"Something wrong with the waffles?" Paige asked.
Wynn-Three shook his head.
"Not hungry?" Wynton suggested.
"Uh-uh."
Wynton looked at his son carefully. The child had been listless ever since he had come down from his room.
"You feeling okay?"
Wynn-Three nodded and spoke in a near whisper. "Yes."
"Then, what . . . ?"
Paige gave a slight shake of her head as if to say "stop."
Wynton returned his attention to the last syrup-soaked morsel, chased it around his plate with his fork, and swallowed before standing up from the table. "It's about bedtime for you. What would you like me to read?"
Whenever Wynto
n was home in time, he read to his son for a few minutes before lights out. It was not only their special time together but an effort Wynton hoped might implant the idea that books offered a cool alternative to TV.
Instead of his usual plea for a few more minutes before bed, Wynn-Three, without a word, slipped down from the seat booster that raised him to table level. Wynton grabbed his son, swinging him roughly head down and then onto his shoulders, a move that normally would have produced shrieks of delight. Tonight there was only silence.
Upstairs, with Spidey tucked in, Wynton gestured toward the bookshelf in a corner of the room. "What story would you like?"
Wynn-Three shrugged. "Don' care."
Wynton stepped across the room, removing a slender volume with Disney characters on the cover. "Snow White? You always like Snow White."
Taking silence as acquiescence, he pulled a chair up next to the bed. "Once upon a time there was this babe that was so hot . . ."
Reducing stories to contemporary language always produced a giggle and a correction. This time there was no response. The face on the pillow was solemn enough to be an adult. Unable to think of anything else to do, Wynton began to read the story as written. There were gentle, even breaths from the bed before Snow White awoke to the Prince's kiss.
Wynton stood and turned off the bedside lamp. He spent several minutes looking at his son by the dim glow of the Mickey Mouse night-light. What the hell had happened this afternoon? Kids were unpredictable and they didn't come with an instruction book, but this was nuts.
The thought of Mrs. Jennins crept into his mind as unbidden as a telemarketer, one he couldn't hang up on. What had she said? An unfortunate subconscious memory? Possible depression? Memory of what? Wynn-Three had received nothing but love and perhaps too much attention from the minute he had left the delivery room. What in his short life had there been of a depressing nature? He shooed Mrs. Jennins out of his mind. He was left with only unanswered questions.
God, but he loved that kid. The long hours, the missed weekends, all to ensure Wynn-Three lacked nothing. Depression? Some Freudian subconscious memory? Bullshit! Wynn-Three was a normal, healthy little boy, notwithstanding some cockamamie crap from some old woman who saw psychosis in little children.
He stopped at the door, not sure what he was seeing. Stooping, he picked up Doodle Bear, the enigmatic writing visible only as a blur in the dim light. He carried it downstairs. Paige had settled on the couch in front of the TV to watch 60 Minutes.
He tossed her Doodle Bear. "Here!"
Although startled, she made a catch any outfielder would have been proud of. "What?"
"Wynn-Three's Doodle Bear."
She looked both puzzled and surprised. "But what . . . ?"
"Look at his arm."
She turned the stuffed animal over and squinted. "What's that?"
He eased himself onto the couch beside her. "I was hoping you could tell me."
She scrutinized the writing more carefully. "Who wrote this?"
"Good question. Wynn-Three says he didn't."
She put the toy down on the couch. "Must have been Manfred, the kid from next door. The numbers are European."
"Huh?"
Paige had done her junior year abroad in college, nine months in Italy. Wynton often wished he could have spent time abroad, but he had been too worried about keeping his grades at law school acceptance caliber.
She picked Doodle Bear up again, pointing with the other hand. "The first figure, the one that looks like an upside-down 'V,' is a one. The Europeans, with the exception of the English, cross their sevens so as not to be mistaken for a one. I have no idea what the triangle means. What's the significance of the number 14257 and why would Manfred write it on Wynn's bear?"
"You'd have to ask him. Only I'm fairly sure he didn't, that Manfred didn't write that number. I was upstairs with the boys the whole time before they went outside. I didn't see him touch the thing."
Paige had lost interest in the program. "Well, you can bet Wynn-Three didn't. He's a month away from even beginning to learn letters and numbers. Besides, if that particular number had any significance in his life, we would know it."
Before he could express his doubt, there was a call from upstairs.
Paige stood, sighing. "I'd bet number-one son has wet the bed again."
"Again?"
She sighed again, headed for the stairs. "Ever since that Pink Pig thing. It's like he forgot potty training. I have to change him once or twice a week."
Regression on toilet training. Kids didn't progress in straight lines, anyway. At least that's what Wynton thought.
CHAPTER 14
Law Offices of Swisher & Peele
The Next Day
WYNTON'S OFFICE WAS FAR TOO SMALL to spread out the entire United Bank litigation file, so he had reserved Conference Room One for the extra space. He needed to check each piece of documentary evidence against the final draft of the pretrial order, the lengthy document agreed to by both sides which formed an outline of the trial of the case. A list of witnesses and exhibits by number, any objections to the adverse parties' evidence, pertinent legal points, contentions of the parties, and the myriad other details that would basically give the judge a heads up on potential issues.
Though good for TV and film drama, trial-by-ambush had all but been abolished.
First, Wynton had to make sure he had a copy of each item the plaintiffs would tender and then make sure nothing had been inadvertently omitted from the bank's list. It was a tedious job usually relegated to senior associates, but there was simply too much riding on the outcome, both for the firm and for Wynton's future, to risk an error.
He had just checked defendant's exhibit one hundred three, as noted by the handwritten number on the yellow sticker, when the phone on a small sideboard buzzed.
Frowning he picked it up. "Wynton Charles."
"Wynton?" Paige's voice was a pitch above normal. "You've got to come here right away."
Her tone made him forget the stacks of papers on the table. Paige wasn't the type of person who easily upset. Visions of disaster flashed across his mind. "What . . . ?"
"It's Wynn-Three."
Muscles instantly tensed and the next breath didn't come easily. He prayed to a god with whom he had not stayed in touch for a very a long time. If something had happened to Wynn-Three . . .
"Wynton, are you still there?"
He was almost afraid to ask, "Is he okay? What happened?"
"He's not hurt, if that's what you mean. But you still need to come out here."
Wynton relaxed. He could feel himself slump. He leaned on the table, feeling weak as an iceberg of paralytic dread melted. His next reaction was anger at his wife for frightening him so. He made himself take a couple of deep gulps of air that seemed to help.
"Wynton?"
"What's the matter?" he asked, unable to completely filter out his irritation.
"We, Wynn-Three and I, are in Mrs. Jennins's office. There's been a problem."
"And you want me to drop what I'm doing and come to St. Philip's." It was a statement, not a question.
"He's your son, too."
The clincher to which there was no real reply. He was fairly certain his blood pressure was dropping back into a safe range. He glanced at the paper mountains on the conference room table. If they somehow got out of order . . . "Now? What sort of problem?"
"You'll have to see for yourself."
He couldn't.
He couldn't just walk away from the pile of evidence and pleadings he had so carefully arranged. The chance someone might inadvertently disturb them was too great. It would take hours to put everything back in the file and then take them out in a specific order again. He couldn't explain to Glen Richardson, senior litigation partner, what had been urgent enough to justify leaving important documents spread all over the table in a conference room open to anyone, including well-intentioned cleaning crew. He couldn't justify more time off to deal with some
will-o'-the-wisp problem that existed only in Mrs. Jennins's head.
He couldn't.
Not for the first time, he had to perform a balancing act, weighing his responsibility to Paige and Wynn-Three against his duties to Swisher & Peele. It was a delicate accounting of debits and credits the firm usually won. Career advancement, senior partnership, high six-figure, or maybe even seven-figure, income that would see to the needs of Wynn-Three and any siblings he hoped would follow. Or being a parent. Or helping Paige.
He hastily scribbled a Do Not Disturb note on a Post-it, placed it on the table, and left.
Mrs. Jennins's office was as he remembered it: desk, two chairs, and a play area for her small charges. Wynn-Three looked up from a fleet of trucks and cars.
"Daddy!"
Wynton scooped him up, making certain his son was, in fact, fine. Only then did he turn to Paige and the day-care principal.
"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?"