The Twelve-Fingered Boy (9 page)

“There are things, Ilsa, that are better not to know. What lives in Maryland is beyond my ken. Beyond your ken. It is off-limits. And I advise you not to probe there for fear of your life.”

I have no idea what Quincrux and Ilsa are talking about. I don't want to know.

With Booth accompanying us, they take us back to our room, sit us on the bed, and begin their examination.

On the inside, when I had control of myself, the world seemed never-changing. There's a comforting permanence to prison. To juvie. But now, on the outside looking in, everything looks desperate, mutable. I realize, like Moms in our trailer, I'm just a tenant in a meatsuit, liable to be evicted at any time.

Ilsa licks her chops and looks at me.

“Never mind the boy,” Quincrux says. “Release Mr. Graves so that he and I might converse.”

Jack gasps and then falls over, like a puppet with its strings cut. He shivers on the floor.

“When you are ready, Mr. Graves, we will require you to disrobe so that we may examine your whole body. Your hands and feet are interesting, but we need to see just how different you are.”

The perv is still interested in Jack's junk.

“Give him a prod, Ilsa.”

“I'll just make him disrobe.”

“I prefer capitulation. It makes the interview go that much easier in the end.”

Jack sits upright. “No.”

“That is your choice.” Quincrux shifts in the chair and adjusts my notebook on the desk. “However, let me warn you, if you resist, I'll snuff out your friend's mind like extinguishing a candle. If you care for him at all, you'll do as I say.”

I'm sorry I told Ox about your fingers, Jack
. Jack stands and takes off his clothes. No diphallia. Nothing else out of the ordinary other than he could use some fattening up. His ribs are clearly visible.

Quincrux looks disappointed. Ilsa sniffs as though looking at an empty plate.

“Another goose chase, eh, Quin? All this effort on these … these human wastes of space.”

Quincrux tsks, withdraws a pressed white handkerchief and wipes his hands. “Put on your clothes, boy.”

Jack begins pulling on his underwear.

“Can I have the tough one?” Ilsa asks, and her voice sounds hungry and childish all at once.

Quincrux pauses, thinking. “I don't think that would be wise, dear. He interests me a bit. He put up more of a fight than you'd expect of a normal delinquent.”

“All the more reason to dispose of him.”

“No.” Quincrux is curt, and I realize his dead, bored tone has been gone since he took control of my body. “I don't want to alarm the authorities. This one,” he jerks a thumb at Booth, “is beginning to question his memory loss. Do we wipe him, too? I think not.”

“All right, then. You are,” she clears her throat, “the boss.”

“I need to ask a few more questions.”

“Go ahead, dear. I have time.” Damn me if she doesn't rummage through her purse and withdraw a needlepoint pattern and thread. It's probably a picture of a ham.

Once Jack is dressed, he sits down on the bed, looking scared. I've seen Jack angry now, and sad, but I've never seen him this cowed. He's a tough little dude, too, this Jack is. But now he looks defeated.

“What happened to your parents, Jack?”

“They died.”

“How?”

“An explosion.”

“How is it that you survived?”

“I don't know. I was three then.”

Quincrux nods, and rubs his chin.

“The incident at the foster home. What happened?”

“They were going to beat me up, the older kids.”

“Did they?”

“No.”

“What happened?”

“I don't remember.”

“Did you fight them?”

“Yes.”

“And…”

“I won, I guess.”

“How is it a boy your age, a child of thirteen—an undersized boy, I might add—could defeat five older children in hand-to-hand combat?”

“I don't know. Why did your nose start bleeding?”

“Ah. You still have some backbone left.”

Suddenly I'm back in my body, and my head is full of pain. I cry out. I scream. Then, before you can say diphallia, I'm kicked out again.

Jack looks at my body with wide eyes and a tear-streaked face.

Quincrux says, “He put up a fight, your friend. But I won. I would advise you to remember this. Why were you so different with similar odds?”

“I don't know.”

“Ilsa?”

“He's telling the truth. There's been no lying as far as I can tell. But he's guarded. There can be no mistaking this.”

“Is it possible he doesn't understand his own powers?”

“Doubtful. He knows he's different, but it has to do with his hands. They're a mark of shame to him.” She huffs, and rests her needlepoint on her massive breast. “A goose chase, I say.”

“Sometimes, Ilsa, I think you want us to fail.”

She says nothing, but clucks in her throat. She pulls a needle through the pattern, tugs the thread, then makes another pass.

Quincrux stands, smooths his slacks, picks up his absurd fedora, and places it on his head.

“You will forget this, Mr. Cannon. I command it. Ilsa?”

“This one will remember nothing other than an absolutely beautiful woman and kind man from the state, inquiring after his welfare.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course, darling. Of course.”

Quincrux shrugs, picks up his briefcase, and moves toward the door. He puts his free hand on Booth's shoulder, lightly, the way a friend might.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Booth. Once again, you have been very accommodating. Very accommodating.”

Booth shudders, looks around, and blinks. He doesn't respond. He stumbles over to the chair Quincrux just vacated. His nose begins to bleed, messing up his perfect pencil-thin mustache. Poor Booth.

Ilsa stands and looks at me. Suddenly I realize I'm back inside my own head, looking out of my own eyes, with a splitting headache. On her way past, she hands me a tissue.

She pats my cheek. “Delicious boy. Your nose is bleeding.”

She winks as they leave.

Booth says, “What just happened?”

Nothing.

Nothing just happened.

Quincrux can “command” all he wants, but I know what I know. The next time I see him and the witch, I'll kill them and earn my place incarcerado. As God is my witness, I will.

Jack's a different matter. He can't remember anything past the Ghost Dance.

“Nothing? You don't remember anything?”

“No. I remember a beautiful woman and—”

“Jesus H. She wasn't beautiful. She had pockmarks and was shaped like a fatted hog.”

“Oh.” He remains quiet for a few moments. Then he looks up and holds up his hand, showing me his fingers. “I don't know what to believe. Everything. Nothing.” He sighs and makes a fist. He's skinny, but his fist looks fat with all those extra fingers. “I believe you, Shreve. I do. It's just…”

“Just what?”

“I can't remember. Any of it.”

Giving him all the story takes a while. I think I remember everything those monsters said. But Jack? Nada.

After all is said and done, I say, “I don't think Booth can remember, either.”

“Why can you when we can't?”

“Maybe I'm different.”

Jack smiles at the irony of that and looks down at his hands.

The smile means a lot to me. I feel terrible for telling Ox about Jack's hands. They'll be coming for us, the meaner denizens of Casimir. And I'm starting to get an idea ofJack's defenses.

His smile fades, and he puts his hands between his knees. He doesn't look at me, just rolls over on his bunk to face the wall. It's like we're back to the beginning.

When I talk to him, he won't answer. Silence is something I'm getting used to.

On the inside, Sundays are a cakewalk for the pious. Priests, reverends, ministers, and evangelists crowd into the hallways of Casimir Pulaski and invade the classrooms with punch and casseroles and pamphlets. There's the Catholics and the Episcopalians in the penguin suits. The Methodists, Presbyterians, and Lutherans in their cheap blazers and Wal-Mart slacks and penny loafers. And then there are the Baptists in their chicken-fried getups: skinny ties and snakeskin boots. The Baptists are like salesmen or beggars—you can't make eye contact or they'll start preaching. They don't bring anything inside Casimir except Bibles and the heat of their faith.

A Nation of Islam guy came for a while, but Warden Anderson doesn't have much liking for anything un-Christian and ran him off. He was kind of cool. He just sat while all the other ministers scurried around preaching or serving chicken spaghetti casserole. He'd listen to his headphones and read the Quran. He had a sign around his neck that said, “Ask.” And we did. We wanted to know what he was all about.

The Warden didn't like that. Pass revoked.

But God? Salvation? Damnation? I don't believe in any of that. Yeah, there might be a god. Yeah, we all might be something more than atoms bouncing off one another. But if there's some bearded bean counter in the sky, he doesn't care about us. Otherwise, kids wouldn't die. There'd be no cancer. There'd be no bastards. No one would ever have a drunk for a mother. Or sprout extra fingers where no fingers are supposed to grow.

No. He don't care about us.

Jack's quiet today. We walk through Commons, through the general pop, and it, too, is quieter than usual for a Sunday. There's pressure on my back, and it's coming from the heavy eyeballing the wards of the state currently give us. You can feel it, the pressure—there's physics to it, like the speed of light or the weight of gravity. It's palpable. It's there.

It doesn't take a mind reader to know this is all because of my fat mouth. Words are my thing. Words are what they'll put on my tombstone.

A cluster of D-Wing goons whistle and make fish faces at Jack, who hunches his shoulders and stuffs his hands deeper into his pockets. Someone yells, “Hey, Fingers! Give us the bird!”

Sounds like Kenny or Reasoner, but I can't be sure. They're both hoarse little ratfinks. I give them two birds. Then I spot Booth, arms crossed over his chest, standing under the chicken-wire television. It's in the rulebook that rude gestures warrant detentions, but he doesn't do anything. Enemies are required to do their best. Why doesn't he do something? He just watches as Jack and I run the general pop gauntlet. We walk through the doors into the cafeteria and down the wide hallway until we find the right classroom.

A man unwraps aluminum dishes and sets out paper plates and Dixie cups.

“Hey, padre!” I greet the man and point at Jack. “Father Glick, meet Jack Graves. He's new.”

The man straightens from where he's arranging aluminum trays. He sees me, smiles, and says, “Shreve. How many times do I have to tell you, I'm just a layperson, a member of the vestry? No need to call me Father.”

I ignore him and take a peek at the spread.

The penguins got wise and realized the wards would stick around for the hard sell as long as there was grub. Today there's cheese grits, cheese enchiladas, and cheese dip. If Glick could figure out a way to get cheese in the tea, there'd be some cheesy tea up in Casimir. That's for damned sure.

He's from the Episcopal camp, which means he wants to be hip and young and accessible to our special situations. But he still reads from a Bible or liturgy or the inspirational tracts and self-help books he always brings with him.

I'm fine with a little proselytizing because I'm quite partial to enchiladas. And Mrs. Glick makes some mean ones, she does. Were she not such a fantastic cook, I might not be as open to the ferv.

Jack follows me to the tucker. Another couple kids from A Wing are there already, with paper plates full of chips and cheese dip and Dixie cups of sweet tea.