The Child Eater (32 page)

“No!” Simon said. “You're lying. You just don't want me to get away because you never could. I'm going and you can't stop me.” He ran for the door. He just had to reach his dad. His dad would send the police or something.

Behind him he heard Caroline's sad whisper: “Go, Simon. Maybe you can do it.”

Simon turned around. “I know you,” he said. “I mean, I've met you. Before I came here. But you were old.” He could see her so clearly now. The old woman sitting all alone in the attic that wasn't really there. Just a dream, his dad had said, but it wasn't, it was Caroline!

Caroline's eyes opened wide. “I don't know,” she said. “Maybe . . . maybe that was who I was, who I would have been. If Reina hadn't caught me. If I'd been allowed to live and grow old.” She began to cry now. “Go!” she said suddenly. “Run!”

Simon ran down the stairs so fast he hit the walls of the stairwell four times on his way to the ground floor.
Out. Get out. Get to the woods. Find a place where the phone works. Call Daddy
.

He hit the front door and fell back, then got up and fumbled it open.
Go, go
, he told himself. Then he was outside the house and he just had to keep going, run for the woods. It was daylight, how did it get to be daylight? He couldn't think about that. There were the trees, they looked a couple of football fields away. His sneakers slapped the dirt, faster and faster.

“Simon!” Dr. Reina's voice filled the sky, shook the ground. “
It is time for you to begin your treatment
.”

Simon couldn't help it. He had to see. He turned and there was Dr. Reina, in his white suit, his face bright and his hair sparkly. In his left hand, loose at his side, he carried a gray stone knife. It looked very, very old. The sun flickered off red spots along the blade. Dried blood. Caroline's blood. The blood of all the children over so many years.

“Come, Simon,” Dr. Reina boomed out. “Soon we will make you a healthy boy.”

Simon ran for the woods.

He dreamed he was walking in a withered garden, past a pair of bent and broken trees. Something had happened to them, he knew, but he could not seem to remember what that was. They looked abandoned, lonely. In the dream, he was called Matyas, and that felt important somehow, something to hold on to when he woke up. “Remember,” he told himself, and immediately thought,
Remember what?
The name, yes.

At the far end of the garden, he saw a stone house, long and gray, with wide windows and a red door. He walked toward it, something that for some reason felt both very difficult and important. As he got closer, he saw a tall man in front of the doorway. The man wore a white tunic and pants, and red boots. His gray-brown hair was brushed back and his face was bright and strong, the eyes shiny, the teeth sharp and gleaming. His right hand held a stone knife pointed at the dirt. It was dripping blood onto some shapeless object at the man's feet.

Matyas stared at him, terrified. He had never seen this man before but he knew who he was. How could he not? He'd known him all his life, seen him in dreams. He'd tried to forget him but could never quite do it.

“Ah, it's you,” the Child Eater said.

Matyas made a noise and tried to back away, but the hand with the knife waved him closer. “There's no need to run,” the Child Eater said. “You can't do anything to me, and I won't hurt you.”

Against his will, Matyas stepped closer. Now he saw what the object on the ground was—a boy, ten or eleven years old. He looked emptied out, with no life, no trace of life in the crumpled mass. And yet, Matyas thought he knew him, recognized what was left of him.
Rorin?
he thought.

And then, as Matyas remembered the boy's name, he realized suddenly there was something else he remembered. The name!
He knew the name of the Child Eater!
He could destroy this ancient evil and then he could fly. He'd done it at last. He'd found the right place.

In the dream, Matyas raised his hands, fingers spread wide to gather power. Nothing happened.
It doesn't matter
, he told himself. He had the name. “Federaynak!” he shouted, “I am Master Matyas. I've come to destroy you.”

Federaynak laughed. “Why? You're just like me.”

He woke up with a cry of pain, though he couldn't remember what caused it. He couldn't seem to remember anything, really, not how he got here or where he was going. In fact, when he thought about it, he discovered he couldn't even remember his own name! He felt like this should bother him much more than it actually did. He didn't know why, but he felt almost a relief about losing his name. There'd been something . . . something he was supposed to do, and now he didn't have to.

The Sun shone without heat, as if the Sun itself couldn't get warm. He stood up all stiff and hungry, with no idea how to find food. Looking down at this strange, green robe he wore, he saw again the lines and squiggles and wondered what they were. Then it struck him and he almost burst out laughing. Writing! He was wearing a robe with writing on it. How did
he
ever come to wear something like this? Suddenly he looked around nervously. Had he stolen it? Were people searching for him? He might have thrown it off and hidden it, except there was nothing else to put on, and he didn't think it was a good idea to walk around naked. He felt around the robe and discovered there were pockets, subtly made so that they were hardly there. Hoping to find some money, he reached inside, but all he came up with were scraps of paper with marks
on them—more writing—and some leaves, and an envelope. He opened it, still hoping to discover money, or maybe gold, but all he found was a foul-smelling yellow powder. If it hadn't reeked so badly, he might have tried to sell it, but he couldn't imagine anyone would want it so he threw the envelope away. A little of the powder got onto the heel of his hand and it itched for most of the morning.

He shook his head and sighed. He wasn't going to solve anything just standing here so he began to walk.

He walked for many hours, until he finally came to a city.

It was very large, with grand buildings of all sizes and colors, some with gold roofs, others made of stone or glass or iron. There were simpler houses as well, made of dried mud bricks or wood.

In the center stood a castle and he almost set out in that direction, but then he noticed another structure off to the side, at the top of a steep hill. There was a stone wall with a large gate that he could just make out from so far away, and the elaborate tops of what must have been elegant multi-story buildings. Off to one side, but higher than everything else, stood a simple stone tower whose top was lost in the bright Sun. He discovered he wanted very much to go there. He took a few steps in that direction only to stop. How could he even think of just walking up to something so rich and important? He was only . . . he was nobody. Someone who couldn't even remember his own name.

And besides, he was hungry. He hadn't eaten in . . . a long time. Instead of going to powerful places and presenting himself as if he was some kind of great prince, he should just try to feed himself.

He wandered aimlessly, confused, wondering what to do. When he saw people with food, he asked if he could have a little. Some laughed, as if he'd made a joke, others hurried away, still others looked angry, as if they wanted to say something nasty but didn't dare. He couldn't understand why people would act that way—what had he done to them? He didn't even know them.

As he tried to figure it out, he realized that whatever the reaction, they all appeared to look first at his clothes. Maybe he was someone rich or important! Maybe people were afraid of him. More likely he really had stolen the robe and people knew it. He didn't feel like a thief, but how could he be sure when he couldn't remember anything?

Nevertheless, if his robe really was the problem he should get rid of it. It would be a shame, it was so well made, but it clearly wasn't doing him any good.

When he came to a street with vendors selling old clothes and broken tools from blankets on the ground, he looked around until he spotted an old woman wearing a robe a little like his own. It was much thicker, lumpier, with crude designs, but there was a resemblance, as if . . . as if she had in fact copied the one he was wearing. He became suddenly very frightened. Had people reacted so strangely not just because the robe looked wealthy, but because they actually recognized it? He must have stolen it, because how could someone as worthless as he be wearing a robe that was not only rich but famous? But how had he got it? The horrible thought struck him that he might have killed the original owner. Snuck up on him when he was sleeping, crushed his head with a stone or something. No wonder people were afraid of him! If only he could remember. Could he really have done something so terrible? All he knew was that he had to get rid of it.

“Please,” he said to the woman, “would you like to buy this?” He fingered the front of his robe, praying silently she would say yes. “It's like yours,” he said, “but nicer.” Her eyes narrowed and he was scared he'd insulted her, but she said nothing, just stared at him so long he wondered if she might not speak his language. Finally she held up a few tarnished coins. “Here,” she said. She thought a little, then reached over to her neighbor's blanket for a brown tunic and pants. “And this to change into,” she said.

He heard laughter as he walked away in his brown clothes but at least he had money. He was very careful with it, buying only the simplest food and eating as little as possible. At night, he slept in alleys or under stars. Vivid dreams troubled him, but he could never remember them when he woke up. At least people had stopped staring at him.

His money ran out just as winter brought the first frost to the city. Now he needed warmth as well as food. All he had for his feet were the sandals he'd been wearing when he came there. He should have told the old woman she had to give him boots along with the money. Maybe if he found her again . . . No, she'd only laugh at him. Sometimes he looked up at the sky and thought how wonderful it would be if he could just fly away, disappear and then come down again somewhere warm and safe.

He tried begging but never seemed to make enough in a day for even the most meager meal, let alone extra for new shoes. There was something about him that made people turn away, even now that he'd got rid of the robe. Oh, he knew he was dirty and smelly, but so were the other beggars. Something in him bothered people, maybe they didn't realize it themselves, but they rushed away as soon as he approached them.

He would have to steal. He didn't want to. The thought of whatever he must have done to whoever had owned the robe made him queasy, and now he was going to steal again. But what choice did he have?

He watched people walk by and wondered how he could knock them out and take their money. When he realized he could never do that, he began to stare at shops closed for the evening or darkened houses. This too he didn't dare. Finally, one evening, almost delirious with hunger, he attempted to pick someone's wallet from his pouch. The man was out with two friends and he stopped to buy a bottle of wine from a street vendor. When the would-be pickpocket saw the tan leather wallet full of coins bounce back into the open bag, he could not help but follow them.

They caught him immediately. The intended victim did nothing, only smiled while the others beat and kicked him and threw him back and forth like a toy. When they left, all he could do was stagger a few feet away, spitting blood, until he fell into a snow bank against the wall of a small inn.

Jack Wisdom knew something was wrong almost immediately, but it took him three days to admit it. As soon as the car had gone around the corner, he'd wanted to run after it, open the door and pull out his son, before . . . before it could swallow him. That was the image that filled his mind, Dr. Reina's Mercedes was like a monster that would gulp down his helpless little boy.

Ridiculous
, he told himself. If he seriously thought that Simon was in danger, he wouldn't have let him go, right? If he really thought he'd made a mistake he would get in his car and chase him down, or call the cops, not fantasize a sprint down the block like some character out of a comic book. Separation anxiety, that's all it was. Possessiveness. Maybe he didn't want Simon to get better. Maybe he was scared he'd lose his tight hold on his son. Maybe he was jealous.
Selfish bastard
, he told himself.
Care more about yourself than your own child
. But that wasn't how he felt. How he felt was terrified.

For two days, Jack used anger at himself to ignore the alarm bells that rang up and down his body. The surges of panic that almost doubled him over. The tears that finally caused his boss to tell him to take some time off. The prayers that ran through his mind when he was watching TV or washing dishes. He found himself thinking of that horrible night
when Rebecca had tried to kill their baby. Strangely, it wasn't the horror of the fire or his wife's insanity that caught him up, it was the peculiar poem or lullaby she'd been chanting.

What the hell was that about? And why was he thinking of it now, when he'd forgotten all about it for twelve years?

Strangest of all was the sense that Simon was actually very close. Right in the next room. Just outside the door. On the other side of the wall. As if Reina had not really taken his son, but only hidden Simon in some secret passage, like in an old movie. Jack would wake up in the middle of the night, think,
Simon
, and reach out to touch his son, then gasp with sorrow and fear when there was no one there.
I'm losing my mind
, Jack thought, and told himself he had to pull himself together, for Simon's sake.

On the third day, Jack woke with a certainty that Simon was not only close but in danger. He could almost hear him crying to come home.
Just a dream
, he told himself. Simon was safe. It was hard, but it was for the best . . . They'd all discussed it, Jack and Howard Porter and Dr. Reina. He just needed to trust.

No
, he thought. Simon was
not
safe. He was sure of it. What Jack Wisdom needed to trust was himself. He sat up and grabbed the phone.

For two days, Jack had made no attempt to call the Institute. Whenever he thought about it, he told himself that Dr. Reina had asked for no contact in the initial stage of treatment. Now he had to admit that the real reason was fear he might hear exactly what he was hearing now. “The number you have dialed is disconnected or not in service.” Jack's hands shook and he had to steady himself to dial again. He tried two more times, then Information in case the number on Dr. Reina's card was out of date or misprinted. No listing. He had the operator check every variation he could think of, as well as other towns in the area. Nothing. “Oh God,” Jack said as he hung up the phone. “Oh God. Help me.”

He ran to the computer, slammed the keys for the website. No such address. This too he tried over and over, and then used search engines for the Institute or Dr. Reina himself. Nothing.
This is crazy
, he told himself. He'd spent hours reading and rereading everything on that site. The testimonials. The fucking videos! Where were they? Where was Reina's goddamn Institute?
Where was his son?

He called Howard Porter, asked him for everything he knew about Reina and the Institute. Howard started to speak then stopped himself. “Jesus, Jack,” he said. “I don't . . . I don't think I really know anything about him. Jesus Christ.”

Jack began to cry. “How could we do this?” he said. “How the hell could we do this?”

“I don't know. It's like I was hypnotized or something.”

If Jack hadn't needed Howard so much, he might have wanted to travel through the phone lines and strangle him. Instead he said, “What am I going to do, Howard? That son of a bitch has got Simon. I don't even know what he is, but he's got my little boy.”

“I'll be right there,” Howard said. “You better call the police.”

Jack and Howard Porter spent all day with the police: local, state, FBI and on the phone with the cops in Wisconsin, who knew nothing about Reina or his Institute. In the middle of his panic, Jack worried they would blame him, maybe even charge him with something. He kept expecting them to say, “You gave your son away to some pervert with a fake website and a fancy brochure? What the hell kind of father are you?”

In fact, they were kind, patient and thorough. They were also helpless. There were no files on a Frederick Reina, no information about his supposed Institute. When Jack and Howard worked with the sketch program to come up with a picture, it brought no connections from the state or FBI's lists of pedophiles. There were men who stole children, not for themselves but to sell them, and they checked that, too, including searches of the pedophile websites where predators advertised such things. These sites were heavily guarded, they explained, but their undercover people had infiltrated them. Nothing.

The police managed to track down the organizer of the conference where Howard had met Reina. They too knew nothing, were not even sure how they'd come to invite him to speak. One of the organizers laughed nervously as she talked to the detectives. She said, “I don't know
how we could do that—accept a speaker no one really knew anything about. It was like we were hypnotized or something.”

After nearly twelve hours, Jack finally allowed the police to fill him with hopeful reassurances and send him home. They told him he should eat, get some rest.
Try not to worry
, they said. They would call him as soon as they had any news.

At home, Jack stared at the telephone.
Any moment
, he told himself. Any moment the phone would ring, and it would be the police, or the FBI, to tell him it was all a mistake. They'd found Simon and he was fine. It would all be okay.
Try not to worry
, the police had said.

Worry! Fuck, worry was what you did when your son's grades went down. This was so far beyond worry—what could he do? He had to do something. He thought of what his mother would tell him to do. Pray. He'd been sitting in the kitchen, and now he walked stiffly to the living room, as if God might appreciate the more formal setting. He got down on his knees alongside the couch, in imitation of how his mother had taught him to kneel by his bed at night. Hands clasped, he said, “Please, God, spare my son. I know I don't deserve your help. I haven't gone to church or anything for years. But please. Not for me, for him. He's just a little boy. Whoever this Doctor Reina really is, don't let him hurt Simon.
Please
.”

He stayed there for a little while, then got up. Who was he fooling? He didn't know how to pray. He'd never really done it, not seriously. Was it even fair to ask God for help after ignoring Him for so long? Should he offer something? Jesus, he thought, he'd already given up his firstborn. What the fuck else could he offer?

In a wild gesture of despair he spun around. His eyes fell upon the photo of Rebecca on the piano. Even in his time of deepest anger he'd never taken it down. He picked it up in both hands, sighed at the memory of her eyes. She was sitting almost formally on the bench he'd put in the back yard in honor of their first meeting, that time in the park. Both feet were on the ground, her hands were in her lap and she was staring right through the camera.

“Bec, Bec,” he said. “What have I done? Oh God, Rebecca, I've screwed everything up. I've killed him. I know it, I know it,
I've killed our little boy
. That's what I thought you were going to do, and now
I've
done it. I got it all wrong. I got it all so fucking wrong.” Tears gushed from his body. “Help me, Rebecca! Please!”

Exhausted suddenly, he sat down on the sofa with the photo still in his hands. Lights flickered around the picture but he only half noticed them. He didn't think he could sleep, but he closed his eyes and in seconds was gone.

He dreamed he was outside, behind the house, but it also was the lawn of Dr. Frederick Reina's Institute. He could see the huge building, just past the trees, just like in the picture. And then he saw Simon. His son was running toward him, mouth open in terror. Behind Simon stood Dr. Reina, calm and sleek in a white suit. He held something gray and sparkly but Jack couldn't make out what it was.

Jack wanted to call out to Simon, tell him Daddy was coming, but Dr. Reina said, “No, no, Mr. Wisdom, you must not interfere. Simon's treatment has begun.” Jack wanted to shout him down but couldn't, for Reina's words had taken on solid form, a syrup that covered Jack's body and filled his mouth. He fell down and couldn't get up, could hardly breathe or see. He would die here. He would suffocate and die, unable to help his son.

It was then that the squirrels appeared. With quick efficiency they gnawed away at the thick coating, first around his eyes and mouth, then his arms and legs—

Jack woke to see Rebecca standing in the living room.