Come Little Children

by Melhoff, D.

  “Really? Says who?”

  “Neurologists. Brain doctors.”

  “And how do…nerogists?”

  “Neur-ol-o-gists,” Camilla articulated slowly. Her breathing was evening out.

  “Neur-ol-o-gists. How do they know that?”

  “Electroencephalography. Say that one ten times fast.”

  Abigail slapped her forehead and fell back on her pillow, defeated. “No way.”

  Camilla smiled, the flashback fading away quicker now, and tickled Abby’s ribs until she was giggling again. When they both had sufficient smiles stretched across their cheeks, she pulled up the covers and tucked Abigail back into bed. “Sleep tight, honey. And remember: dreams aren’t around for long.”

  Abigail nodded, relaxed. But as Camilla kissed her one last time and whispered, “Good night,” another flash of fear crossed the seven-year-old’s face.

  “A couple minutes,” Camilla emphasized. “Max. Got it?”

  “Mm-hmm.” Abby nodded, and then she rolled onto her side and watched as her mom got up and walked across the bedroom. But just as Camilla reached the door, Abby’s voice cooed once more in the rose-colored shadows.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do we have a rope?”

  The question came out of left field. It reminded Camilla oddly of something she would have said herself.

  “I don’t know, sweetheart. Probably.”

  “And a really long knife?”

  Camilla’s posture went rigid. She froze in the threshold of the hallway and looked back into the bedroom. “What are you talking about, Abby?”

  The room was quiet. Abigail was still facing the door, her two eyes glistening like oil drops from across the dark void.

  “The dreams aren’t just about the backyard,” she said. “Sometimes there’s other stuff too.”

  “Like what kind of stuff ?”

  “Like—like people running through our house screaming. And Uncle Jasper getting hurt with a long knife.”

  Camilla shivered as if someone had just stepped on her grave. “Dreams aren’t real, Abigail,” she insisted. “They’re not real.” But if every part of her had believed that—if there wasn’t a small compartment of her subconscious that had bought into her own dreams over the last eight years—she might not have paused with her hand on the doorknob and asked one more question to the pair of glistening eyes in the shadows. “What was the rope for?”

  The eyes blinked once, and then the soft voice replied with two words that sent another shiver coiling up Camilla’s spine.

  “For you.”

  22

  Marlee and Todd

  Early the next afternoon, Camilla found herself entering the gate of a green picket fence and approaching a postcard cottage that looked the exact opposite of Lou and Sharon Mullards’. She had barely tapped the polished gold knocker when the door swung open and revealed a plump woman in an enormous snowsuit. Her eyes were shielded by sunglasses the size of dessert plates, and she had a bag of ice melt clenched in her right garden glove.

  “Oh Lord! Is that you, Camilla? Stone the crows, I thought I had time to sand the walk before you got here, but I guess not.”

  “Sorry,” Camilla apologized. “I’m early. Go ahead—”

  “Nonsense, girl. Get in, get in. It’s colder than my ex-husband’s heart out there.”

  Before Camilla could say anything else, the woman pulled her inside with a meaty grip and whammed the door closed behind them.

  The cottage was intensely warm and humid. They made their way through a sweltering glass solarium that was packed to the roof with tropical flowers—tiger lilies, moon orchids, Chinese bellflowers—as peaceful Korean flute music wafted around them and a bamboo water fountain trickled in the foyer. The environment’s heat wave felt like a giant hug in the middle of Nolan’s terrible cold spell; after thirty seconds, Camilla was already sweating under her parka. I’d hate to see the power bill for this place.

  They walked into an open living room with 360-degree floor-to-ceiling windows. The sheer radiance of sunlight hitting the glass and bouncing off the white walls was enough to illuminate the space like a well-lit photography studio. Camilla, coming in with her charcoal peacoat, her raven-shade lipstick, and her obsidian earrings, was a black speck in the sea of bright, praise-Jesus white.

  “So welcome, welcome,” the woman said, unzipping her snowsuit and extending a hand. “I’m Lola Pinkton, as you probably guessed. And, uh, well Marlee’s around here somewhere.”

  Camilla’s hand was swallowed inside of Lola’s and shaken enthusiastically.

  “Marlee? Marlee!”

  The sound of footsteps came tromping from somewhere else in the house, and a second later Marlee Pinkton stalked into the room, her nose glued to a cell phone that was vibrating every five seconds with new text messages. She was a tall, blonde teenager now, but Camilla recognized her as the second child to step out of the Vincents’ pond in the last eight years. Her appearance hadn’t changed nearly as much as Hudson’s, but she had certainly come a long way—from a skipping shortstop to a slender, bubble-gum-popping cheerleader-type, whom Camilla definitely would have loathed in high school.

  “Marlee, Camilla. Camilla, Marlee,” Lola introduced, putting a proud arm around her daughter.

  “Hey,” Marlee said, slumping into an ivory-white La-Z-Boy.

  “So.” Lola beamed. “I don’t really know the, uh, the process here, but do you two need to be alone? Or…”

  “No,” Camilla said. “I just need to ask a few questions.” And make sure she’s not a kidnapping, psychopathic teenager.

  “Wait.” Marlee frowned, looking up from her cell phone for the first time since entering the room. “What is this?”

  “Well, Ms. Vincent here’s stopped by to make sure you’ve been feeling all right. Though I assure you, Ms. Vincent, my girl is as healthy as they come. She might eat as much as a corpse, but she’s just as dandy as you and me, I promise you that.”

  “Hold on.” Marlee’s lower jaw jutted out. “Is this is some kind of joke? Mom, I thought we said we’d never talk about that again?”

  “It’s just a few questions—”

  “This is bullshit.”

  “Watch your mouth, young lady.” Lola looked at Camilla and forced a chuckle. “Could you sew that shut before you bring her back next time?”

  Marlee crossed her arms and puffed out an impatient breath, sending all her bangs blasting upward in defiance. She lifted her legs and plopped both feet on the La-Z-Boy’s matching white footstool.

  “Hey, zombie,” Lola barked, “get those muddy shoes off my ottoman.”

  Marlee rolled her eyes and whipped her feet off the furniture.

  “Impossible.” Lola shook her head. “Do you have kids, Ms. Vincent?”

  “A seven-year-old girl.”

  “Ha! Enjoy life while she’s little.”

  “You know”—Marlee stood—“I don’t have to take this. If she thinks I’m a fricking killer-demon or something, she can call the cops and they can come interrogate me. Be in my room.”

  Marlee stormed away, and Lola was just about to stand up and grab her when Camilla waved her off. “That’s fine. That’s all I really needed.”

  “Sorry about that,” Lola said, wiping her forehead. “I swear she’s a good kid. At least, not a felon, that’s for sure. No, the only trouble she’s involved with has to do with those boys she’s always messaging.”

  “I’m not looking forward to the teenage years,” Camilla said. Secretly she hoped her daughter would never be part of a spoiled, popular clique, but then she remembered Abigail was a Vincent, and if anything was enough to deny a kid entry to the popular pantheon in grade school, it was that singular fact.

  “I’ll let you get back to your sidewalks,” she said. “Sorry for the interruption.”

  “No apology necessary, Ms. Vincent. It was nice meeting you.”

  Lola walked Camilla back to the entranc
eway and unlatched the door. Just as she pulled it open, she noticed a Midnight Sun lying on the front steps.

  “Mind grabbing that?” Lola piped up.

  Camilla crouched down and took the paper in both hands. Its headline read: WARDEN SEPARATES INMATES AFTER BLOCK GETS ROWDY. She held it out and watched as a bit of the fizz faded from Lola Pinkton’s face.

  “Should’ve guessed,” Lola said. “Did you hear those buggers howling down at the jail last night? Could’ve been wolves, for jeepers’ sake.”

  Camilla remembered what Sharon Mullard had said about inmates acting like animals back in ’89 when the attacks had just started. Right before the shit really hit the fan, she thought.

  Lola rolled up the newspaper, and Camilla noticed a shudder ripple through the rolls of fat on the woman’s arms. As they both looked out at the street, their breaths forming transparent clouds around their faces, Lola said, “Good luck with your search, Ms. Vincent. I pray you find who you’re looking for. Good-bye now.”

  Two down, one to go.

  The last stop on Camilla’s route was apartment 14B of 305 Banning Road. This had been the hardest home to trace, as Todd was never officially in the Vincents’ records. No, she recalled, I brought him home like a kid who busted her favorite china doll and cried for mommy to fix it. He was in the pond and out of the door in record time; I bet most of the Vincents don’t even remember him.

  Oh but she remembered him. She could still see the terror in his eyes as he tripped over the steel girders and went falling to his death in slow motion. She remembered his blood spilling over the warehouse floor, and the way his body flailed in the back of the funeral van on their way to the morgue. But most poignantly, she remembered the relief she felt when he rose from the pond only hours later and absolved her—to some extent—of the epitaph murderer.

  Todd was already sixteen when he was brought back, which would make him twenty-four now. She got his address from somebody at the newspaper, although when they mentioned he hadn’t worked there in three or four years, she had to admit she was apprehensive. Furthermore, the Sun’s manager didn’t have his phone number on record anymore, so this visit was about to be made unannounced.

  Camilla rang the buzzer and waited.

  The weather had been bearable up until then, but now the wind was picking up and pinching every patch of exposed skin. According to the Weather Network, it was minus thirty-seven with the wind-chill and bordering twenty-second frostbite territory.

  She rang the buzzer again, this time pressing much longer.

  Then it hit her.

  Todd was the last person on her list. If she had already ruled out the other suspects, then process of elimination dictated that he was the one she was looking for. The one who had kidnapped and possibly killed two innocent girls. No wonder he’s not answering the door, she thought morbidly, and then a light-headed sense of panic trickled in. She was standing outside a possible murder scene, unarmed, with absolutely no plan to go by and no backup. Peter thinks I’m dropping off dry cleaning. I could go missing for days and the family wouldn’t know where to start looking.

  Then a different possibility crossed her mind—one that was infinitely scarier. Say Todd did answer the door, and he was completely normal. Just like the other two revenants. Who would she have to blame then?

  Behind her, a car door slammed shut. Camilla flinched and craned her head around to see an old man hobbling up to the complex.

  “Forgetcha key?” He smiled affably.

  “Just waiting on someone.”

  “Oh, well here.”

  He took out a Cleveland Indians key chain, the old tan-skin logo, and jingled it around. “There’s the ticket.” He let her into the building first, and then closed the door behind them.

  “Thank you.” Camilla panted as they stomped their feet on the boot mat.

  “No problem,” he said. “Nice friend you got, making you wait so long.”

  “More acquaintance than a friend.”

  “Oh? Which room?”

  “14B.”

  “14B?” The old man thought about it for a second. “The Muntains? You’d be waiting awhile,” he snickered. “They’re snowbirding in Arizona.”

  “Muntains?” Camilla frowned. “Doesn’t a young man live there? Todd?”

  “Todd? Todd…Todd…” The senior scratched his head. “Oh yes, Todd! That photographer boy from the Sun?”

  “Yes.” She brightened.

  “Yes! He used to help me bring in my groceries. Good lad! But he’s not here anymore. Moved out east, I think. Mm-hmm. Met a girl from the Maritimes or something and hasn’t been here for months. Maybe even a year.”

  “Oh.” Camilla frowned, deflating.

  “Don’t worry,” the old man said, reaching out and patting her hand. “I’m sure you’re much prettier than she is.”

  He tipped his hat and took off down the hall.

  Camilla didn’t move. Even though her body was warm, her mind had stalled with the realization that her final lead was gone. What now? she asked. There was only one other child who had come from the courtyard in the last eight years, a child with the most enigmatic conception and birth of them all—

  No! Put that out of your head, Camilla. Stomp it out right now! You go straight to the police station and tell Mick that it’s not the Vincents’ problem anymore. If a kidnapper is out there, he’s nothing but your regular, whole-wheat criminal. Done. Finished. Over.

  She braced herself and slammed the apartment door open. The wind blasted her face again but she squinted through it, setting out on foot once more for the Nolan Police Department.

  By the time she got to the police station, Camilla had frostbite on both her cheeks. Her skin was numb until she got inside, and then it suddenly felt as if someone was holding a pair of irons to either side of her face.

  “Camilla? For Christ’s sake, buy a ski mask or something.”

  She barely heard Mick over the commotion in the room. The Nolan police station was small, but bustling: two officers hollered into their walkie-talkies as they jogged past, and the girl at the reception desk was playing Dutch Blitz with the telephone tree and the intercom system in front of her.

  “Mick,” Camilla said, turning around, “I’m sorry but—”

  “Save it for the drive, sweet cheeks. The SAR dogs just got here from Whitehorse and they’re already at the Corys’.” He zipped up his jacket and blew a kiss at the reception girl. She rolled her eyes and flipped him the finger. “Saddle up, Vincent. Let’s go.”

  23

  The Bloodhounds

  By the time Mick and Camilla pulled up to the Corys’ house, there was already an RCMP SUV parked out front and another cruiser in the back. Camilla had explained to Mick on the ride over that the children from the funeral home weren’t the ones behind the missing twins, but now the officer seemed too caught up in the arrival of higher authorities to spare her any more attention. When they climbed out of the vehicle, they could hear voices in the distance.

  “Around back,” Mick said. He led them along a tall fence and through a gate to the Corys’ yard.

  Standing close to the house were Mr. and Mrs. Cory with three Mounted Police officers. Beside the Mounties were two bloodhounds in orange-and-black Search-and-Rescue vests, waiting patiently at their commander’s pant leg.

  Camilla and Mick rounded the corner just in time to see the commander kneel down and hold out a child’s slipper to the SAR dogs. Both hounds sniffed at every angle of the pink shoe for no more than five seconds before the trainer looked them in the eyes and said in a clear, strict voice, “Go find!”

  The dogs rocketed off through the yard.

  No one said anything—no clouds of breath slipped from their lips—while the bloodhounds raced around the terrain, shoulder to shoulder, and followed the scent that their powerful nostrils had captured.

  The yard itself was only a hundred feet off the shoreline of Nolan’s main lake. There was a wooden dock and a rickety boa
t shed nestled in the dead trees by the water’s edge, and a fourteen-foot canoe tethered in the shallow foam. The lake looked cold and black. Even though it was already a week into January, the winter hadn’t been around long enough to freeze the entire surface yet (it would be another month—maybe a month and a half—before that happened).

  The crowd continued watching as the bloodhounds scoured the yard for five minutes, standing like ice sculptures with their feet frozen in the rising snow. The Corys wrapped their arms around each other and sent puffs of prayers into the sky, while the officers kept careful watch over the dogs for signs of natural indication—any sort of change in the dogs’ behavior that would signal an alert. Camilla and Mick stood in the background, arms crossed, with their hopes going as numb as their cheeks.

  The dogs torpedoed back and forth, circling a sandbox for the eighth or ninth time, and then took off for the reeds, plowing through the snow banks with their long, sensitive snouts. They ran up and down the dock twice, three times, and then rushed for the boat shed before repeating the entire grid all over again.

  The commander whistled and the dogs galloped back to his side. “Sit. Stay.”

  He turned to the Corys with a stoic look on his face. “Looks like the boys are having some trouble. I’m afraid it’s hard to pick out a trail at home since the girls’ scents are everywhere.” He turned to Mick. “Any other leads yet? Maybe another location?”

  “Let’s, uh, let’s talk inside,” Mick said, having the decency to defer more bad news until they were all a bit warmer. Everyone nodded, and even though Camilla wasn’t directly involved in the investigation anymore, she continued to follow them into the house, if only to avoid being alone with her thoughts.

  The Corys’ dining room was dim and disheveled. Drawers from the china cabinet had been torn out and emptied all over the table, and there were photo albums, textbooks, and empty coffee mugs piled to kingdom come. Keeping a clean house was clearly the last thing on Mrs. Cory’s mind—she didn’t even apologize for the mess. She didn’t have to.

  Everyone stood around the table, too nervous to sit, and one of the RCMP officers tapped Mick on the shoulder and nodded toward another room. Mick led the officers away and their voices became too hushed for the rest of them to hear.