The Twelve-Fingered Boy (5 page)

“No. Jack. And that's why I think Quincrux is here to question him. I need your cell. So I can listen.”

“You telling me the fish has twelve fingers?”

“Yeah, man. Twelve fingers.”

“Wow.”

Ox turns and begins shambling, not toward Commons but toward the classrooms.

“Ox! I'm not messing around here. I need in your cell.”

“Nah. Mr. Allenby will be pissed.”

“Two Blow Pops.”

“Nah.”

“Two Blow Pops. Two Heath bars.”

“Two more Heath bars. On top of escort pay.”

“Right. Agreed.”

“Okay. Let's go.”

I don't know if I'm more pissed at Ox for outmaneuvering me or at myself for spilling the beans on Jack.

“Ox, don't tell anybody else about Jack. Please. He's just a kid.”

“What? Oh. Yeah. That's fine.”

“Really?”

“Really what?”

“You won't tell anyone?”

“Anyone what?”

“Exactly.”

“What?”

Sloe-Eyed Norman waves us back through after the metal detector grants us passage. Silence means assent. I bound up the stairs, three at a time. Ox takes them one by one, so I'm waiting for a minute before he gets to the second floor. Norman, who's neatly enclosed in a windowed booth, watches us. I wave.

Norman waves back, picks up a magazine, and starts to read. But he doesn't turn back to the Commons.

We reach Ox's room. A couple kids, Miller and Smetana, are futzing around at the end of the walkway, most likely playing craps. I can't understand why Norman lets them toss dice against the wall all morning and watches us so closely.

All the cell doors are open except for one. Mine. Jack's.

They're here, not in some Admin office or classroom. They're here.

I peek through the wire-crosshatched window. There's Jack, sitting on the bed. Quincrux sits across from him, at the desk. Booth stands facing the door.

I duck my head back, hoping Booth didn't see me.

But something's wrong. When I peeked into the room, Booth didn't react. In fact, he looked … I don't know. Vacant. Somewhere else.

I peek again.

“You gonna use my room, Shreve? What's up?”

I hold up a finger for silence.

Booth stands in the room, off to the side, looking at the window in a thousand-yard stare. His mouth is open, and drool is spilling from his bottom lip.

What the hell is going on here?

I turn, dash into Ox's room, and jump to the top bunk, putting my ear to the vent.

On the inside, in the quiet of the morning, sound can travel. All it takes is a listener to give it meaning.

“An unfortunate occurrence, yes? But luckily for you, your former foster brother will live. It's possible he will walk again, too, after years of painful therapy. Does this make you happy?”

“No. Yes.” Jack is quiet for a bit. I'm trying to picture the way he looks, to imagine myself in the room, sitting next to Quincrux and looking at Jack on the bed. He's tamped down his hair, and his hands are between his knees. Not exactly hidden, but out of sight.

Silence and rustling echo down the dull metal walls of the vent.

“You are not a vocal youth, this I will say.”

More silence.

“I'd like to ask you to do something for me. Observe this glass of water. You see?”

“Sure. It's right there.”

“Please move it, if you will.”

There's a pause, and then Quincrux says, “No, no. From over there.”

“How can I move it without getting close to it? That doesn't make any sense.”

“No matter. Here I have a series of cards with symbols on them. I am going to hold them up, and I want you to tell me what the symbols are. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

I hear the clasps of the briefcase and then the ruffling of poster board.

“First card.”

“You're not going to show it to me?”

“No. You need to divine the answer.”

“Divine?”

“Perceive, then.”

“How can I know what's on the card if I can't see it?”

“That is a good question. A very good question. How indeed?”

“I can't.”

“Try.”

“Um … is it a … square?”

“No.”

“A triangle?”

“No.”

“A circle?”

“No.” The cards ruffle again, and Quincrux sighs. “Well, this isn't working. Is it, Mr. Graves?”

“No, it isn't. I don't understand what you want.”

“Obviously not. Let us move on to other matters. The word you're searching for is polydactyl. Indeed, it is a word you've been searching for all your life. It is my honor to present it to you.”

“Polydactyl? I don't understand.”

“Supernumerary digits. It's a congenital condition that occurs once in every five hundred births. However, multiple instances of polydactylism in one person, well … this is considerably rarer. Exceedingly rare, occurring in less than one in one hundred thousand births.”

“You're not really with the Department of Health and … whatever … are you?” For a moment my heart goes out to the little dude. He's showing backbone, he is. Get him, Jack.

“Ah!” Quincrux talks in the same inflectionless way Jack does. His “ah” sounds like a sigh. Like he doesn't care one whit about what's going on, he's just doing his job. Or maybe he wants to die and all life is just misery. Misery and unhappiness.

That's frightening to think about.

“No, Mr. Graves. No, I am not affiliated with the Department of Health and Human Services. Should anyone wish to contact the DHHS to confirm my employment, I say to him, feel free to exercise your curiosity. My employment will be confirmed. However, you have guessed correctly. I have never once entered the DHHS building.”

There's a shifting, a cough. A grunt.

“My apologies. One moment. Allow me to readjust Mr. Booth.”

“You didn't do anything.”

It's Quincrux's turn to remain silent.

“Why's he just standing there like that?”

“In your case, perfect postaxial polydactylism. Perfectly symmetrical. Now, may I ask you a few personal questions? Yes?”

“I … I guess.”

“How many toes do you have?”

“Twelve.”

Holy crow. Jack's got stuff sprouting everywhere.

“Are they postaxial? Do you have two pinkies or two big toes?”

“Pinkies.”

“Postaxial, then. Any malformations? Will you remove your shoes so I might see?”

After a moment, I hear the clop of a shoe dropping. In my mind's eye I can see Jack's bare feet bristling with angry toes.

“Ah! That looks uncomfortable.” Quincrux chuckles, a dry sound. “Diphallia?”

“What?”

“Do you have more than one penis?”

The way Quincrux asks this, with a little trill at the end, surprises me. The suit's been deadpan this whole time, but with that question he showed his interest. He's not bored anymore.

Creep.

“I'm afraid silence is not a suitable answer. Please disrobe so that I might observe.”

“No.”

“I can compel you.”

“No.”

Don't do it, Jack
. I'm going to get Norman.

Something is happening now. I can feel it through the cinder-block walls. A struggle is going on in there, even if I can't hear anything. I'm about to jump down and get Norman when Quincrux says, “So, you are not as docile as you seem.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Show me your hands.”

“No.”

“I've seen them already, in the cafeteria. Let me examine them.”

“No.”

Something is building in there. Something like an electrical charge, the feeling you get standing near a transformer during a thunderstorm. It's like the walls are vibrating without moving, streaming with unseen energy.

It builds. It surges, crests, and recedes. It's like a tidal pool, sinking back into the ocean. I hear a sigh, maybe of relief, but I can't tell which of them it comes from. The man or boy.

“Hmm. Your special condition seems to … to … prevent me from using my normal methods of investigation.” There's a rattle, and the clasps of the briefcase snap.

“It's regretful you are such a recalcitrant young man. I would like to leave you something. I want you to read it. Think about what it might mean, not in and of itself, but as a gift. Gifts always reveal something about the giver, do they not? I hope this gift will reveal something about the giver and the recipient.”

More silence. I'm worried the AC is going to kick on and make a tornado of the vent.

“I'll let you think about it, Mr. Graves. When I return, maybe you will be more … how shall we say this? … more commodious. Yes. Commodious.” I can hear Quincrux rustle, hear the clack of his wing tips as he stands and walks to the door.

“As I was saying, Mr. Booth, thank you for your time and hospitality. Mr. Graves seems to be in good psychological and physical condition.”

There's another cough. Then Booth mumbles, “Huh? Wha?”

“Ah. I realize this interview must have been exceedingly tiresome for you, Mr. Booth. It's completely understandable if you drifted off.”

“Yeah. Well. I.”

“No matter. Young Mr. Graves and I have completed our interview. I shall return to the office and finalize this report.” Quincrux makes a weird little clucking in his throat. Then he says, “However, I intend to return in a week or so with a … colleague. A colleague with a special skill set.”

“Uh. Yeah. Okay. I'll give you the form back in my office, on your way out. You'll need to have him cleared before he can have access to Jack.”

“Of course. All the
t
's will be crossed, and the
i
's will be dotted.”

“Right.”

There's a jangling, and the door clicks and swings open. Quincrux's wing tips clack and diminish as they move down the walkway, toward the stairs and Norman.

I drop from the top bunk. Ox draws on a legal pad at his desk. I can't imagine what things Ox might draw. Unicorns? Wizards? Flowers?

“I'm done, bigun.”

“Okay. When will I get paid?”

“This afternoon. After the yard.”

He nods once. “Don't forget.”

“How could I?”

“Yeah. You don't miss a trick, there, do ya, Shreve?”

Oh. I might have missed one or two in my time.

We wait a moment to let Booth, Quincrux, and Jack pass through the metal detector, and then we follow. I have to find Jack.

I hope Ox keeps his cakehole shut.

On the inside, everybody's got a story. Even me.

It was before midnight on a Saturday, and Moms was already passed out. It had been a hard one leading up to her fall. I hid the vodka. She had a stash somewhere I didn't know about.

She smoked like a chimney, keeping one square dangling from her mouth as she fiddled the next from the pack. White packs without any label on them. Like government cheese and probably tasting just as awful.

“Shree, I want to watch
Price
.” Moms never called anything by its whole name. Too much effort.

She didn't slur when drunk. On the contrary, she overpronounced her words. Slowly. Carefully.

“
Price
ain't on right now, Moms. It's on in the afternoon. There's
Dancing
. You want that?”

She gave an explosive blast of air in disappointment.

I played defense all night between the booze and her trying to burn down the trailer with smokes and keeping Vig fed and happy in front of the bedroom TV. I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have TV to placate him. Or her.

His name is Ferrous Vigor Cannon. That's iron strong cannon to you and me. Hard for me to say, Ferrous. I don't know what she was smoking when she signed the birth certificate. I'm Shreveport Justice Cannon.