The Pure: Book Three of the Oz Chronicles (17 page)

“‘Crazy,’ I said. I spun the word around
in my head. ‘He doesn’t like that word.’

“‘Who doesn’t?’ Wes asked.

“I thought about the question. ‘I don’t
know.’ I mouthed the word a few times. Then whispered, ‘Crazy. Crazy. Crazy.
Who doesn’t like that word?’ A vision flashed in my head. I had no face. I
reached up and touched my nose. The vision was gone. To Bobby, ‘Do you know?’

“He shook his head. He looked
frightened. ‘This part’s not in the comic book.’

“I suddenly felt woozy and doubled over
placing my hands on my knees. ‘Something’s changed.’

“Wes placed a meaty hand on my back. ‘I
think that Silencer got inside that head of yours and rattled some things
around.’

“A scream shot through the sky. We all
took off to investigate. When we rounded the other side of the truck, we saw
Lou with a pot in her hand standing over a flattened and crumbled mound of
Ramen noodles. Tyrone stood next to her panting.

“‘What happened?’ Lou asked.

“‘Tyrone just knocked the noodles out of
my hand and started stomping on them.’

“Tyrone didn’t defend himself. He held
out a piece of paper. ‘I found this in Valerie’s backpack just now.’

“Lou took the paper out of his hand.
‘It’s a note.’ She read it out loud. ‘Don’t eat the noodles.’ She looked up.
Her brow was furrowed. ‘It’s signed by someone named Millie B. Story.’

Millie B. Story.

I look at the words written on the
notebook. She had now made it into Scoop-face’s session. Who is Millie B.
Story? I remain in the janitor’s closet writing the name over and over again.
Light creeping in through the bottom of the door illuminates the room. I see
the shadows of people’s feet passing the closet as they travel through the
hall. I am sure I will be discovered at any moment, but I don’t care. I am now
consumed with figuring out who Millie B. Story is, and what she wants with me.
From Scoop-face’s story, I have determined that she is here to help.

A light tapping comes at the door.
“Boss,” Bones whispers. I continue writing Millie B. Story’s name. I don’t
answer. “We gotta go.” He waits for my reply, but it doesn’t come.

“Boss?”

The door slowly pushes open, and Bones
slips in. “Oz?”

“Down here,” I say from my hiding spot
in the corner of the closet.

He sighs heavily. “Thank goodness. I
thought you went without me.”

His face contorts and twists as he
realizes he’s said something he shouldn’t have. “You know, back to your room.
Archie would have my head if I let you go back unescorted.”

“You’re a bad liar,” I say. “That’s good
to know.” I stand. “Who’s Millie B. Story?”

“I don’t know.”

I shove him. “Tell me.” I fight to keep
my voice down.

“I don’t know. I swear.”

“I told you, you’re a bad liar, Bones.”

He looks down and nervously tugs on his
pant leg.

“We’re getting nowhere, and I’m tired of
this damn closet,” I say. “Tell me who Millie B. Story is.” He starts mumbling
something under his breath. I can’t make out what he’s saying. I lean in,
“What?”

He speaks more clearly and raises his
voice to just above a whisper. “Snarkel, snapper, momma, jaws, spot, jumper,
hambone, Charlie boy.”

“Stop talking nonsense!” I say much too
loudly.

“Snarkel, snapper, momma, jaws, spot,
jumper, hambone, Charlie boy,” he repeats.

I shake him by the shoulders. “Bones
don’t do this to me. I need to know.”

I hear a clicking on the linoleum floor
of the hallway outside the closet. Feet... claws... nails tapping against the
cold hard foundation of the world outside our small room.

“Snarkel, snapper, momma, jaws, spot,
jumper, hambone, Charlie boy,” Bones says again. His eyes roll back in his head
and a toothy grin protrudes from his skull-like face. A series of growls
rumbles through the heavy closet door. I can hear the clacking of teeth as jaws
snap shut.

“What are you doing?” I ask Bones. My
mouth is dry and my palms begin to sweat.

“Calling in for back-up,” he says.

A scratching comes at the door. The
growls grow more intense. “You’re supposed to be helping me,” I say.

He grabs the handle of the door without
looking and slowly pulls the door open. “This is helping.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” I say panicked.

A large animal leaps through the open
doorway and knocks me to the ground with a violent thud. Another animal follows
and another and another. I hear wild barking. A saliva drenched tongue covers
my face. More than one, three, four, too many to count. I push myself back
across the floor. A dog whines. It takes me several seconds to determine that
these mad dogs weren’t attacking me. They weren’t mad at all. They are ecstatic.

“Dogs?” I say.

“Snarkel, snapper, momma, jaws, spot,
jumper, hambone, Charlie boy,” Bones says. His pupils back front and center.

I count the wagging tails. “Eight dogs.”

Bones smiles.

“Wes’s Taker Killers.” I pat one of the
mutts. “This is what happened to them.”

Bones introduces me to each one, and
gives his reasoning for their names. Snarkel makes a snarkel noise when he
sneezes. Snapper snaps at the others for no reason. Jaws has an impressive set
of choppers. Spot has a single white spec of fur on her snout. Jumper leaps
like a kangaroo. Hambone can fit five large hambones in his mouth and Charlie
Boy is his favorite.

“Named him after me,” Bones says. “Used
to call him Charlie’s Boy, but he ain’t nobody’s boy. He’s the leader. Alpha
male, I guess is what you call him. He’s just Charlie Boy now.”

I smile. “They look good, Bone...
Charlie.”

“Thanks,” he grins. “They have been
itching to get to this thing. It’s been tough holding them back.”

“Where?”

He thinks about the question. “I don’t
really know. They’s good hiders. When I need them, they come a running. They’re
just about the greatest dogs that ever lived.” Snarkel jumps up and puts his
big paws on Charlie’s bony chest.

“Nobody else knows about them?”

“Nobody but Archie. He put me in charge
of them when he come here.” He scratches behind Snarkel’s ears.

I poke my head outside the closet door.
It’s empty. Back to Bones, “You need to hide them...” I stand in silent wonder.
The dogs are gone. “Where?...”

“I told you,” Bones smiles. “They’s good
hiders.”

“C’mon,” I say. I step into the hallway
and quickly head down the corridor.

“Where we going?” Bones asks as he
struggles to keep up with my pace.

“You’re going to escort me to Archie’s
room.”

***

“You’re not telling me everything,” I
say to Scoop-face.

He sits on the edge of his bed. The
missing parts of his face do not disgust me as much as they had before. I can
see the young man he used to be in the way he sat. His broad shoulders are
perfectly aligned and his posture is proud and straight. For the moment, he is
not Scoop-face. He is Archie. He smiles. “I don’t know everything.”

I shake my head. “You know what I mean.
You’re not telling me everything you know.”

He hesitates. “Are you a butterfly, Oz?”

I think about the question and remember
the story of the Chinese philosopher from his session. “No, Archie. I’m not a
butterfly. I am a man... or a boy...”

“Creyshaw,” Scoop-face said. “You are a
creyshaw.”

I nod. “Okay, I am a creyshaw.”

“Or are you?” he asks.

I cover my eyes with the palms of my
hands and bend back, fighting the urge to scream. “What are you doing to me?”

“Are you a creyshaw dreaming you’re a
man in a psychiatric ward in the year 2033 or are you a man in a psychiatric
ward dreaming you’re a creyshaw in the year 2008?”

I drop my hands to my sides. “I don’t
know. I don’t know. I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. You tell me.”

“I can’t,” he said. “You’ve got to
figure that out on your own.” He places his hand on the bedpost and lifts
himself to his feet.

“What are you?” I ask.

He smiles. “I’m a man without a face
trying to make up for all the mistakes I’ve made in my life.”

“Your family?”

His smile quickly disappears. “Among
others.” He says as he clumsily steps forward. He whispers. “She changed the story.”

I stroke my chin and whisper back,
“Millie B. Story?”

He nods. “She’s confused them.”

“Them who?”

He signals for Bones to enter from the
doorway. “We’ve never made it this far. This is the longest you’ve remembered.
You gave her time to change the story. We are one step away.” He grabs Bones’
elbow. “Take me to the cafeteria. I’m in the mood for some soup.” To me, “What
is Lou’s real name?”

I run my fingers through my hair. “I
can’t remember.”

“You will,” he says. “Let’s go,
Charlie.” They stop at the open doorway and Archie says, “Do you have a
notebook?”

I pull the small notebook from the
janitor’s closet out of my back pocket. “Yeah.”

“Do me a favor,” he says. “Write down
‘Lou’s real name’ on the last page with writing on it.”

I snicker. “I think I can remember
that.”

“Indulge me,” he says. “Do an old
faceless man a favor.”

I pause. He is up to something. I turn
to the page where I had scribbled Millie B. Story’s name down several times and
write down “Lou’s real name.”

He grins. “That-a-boy.” He squeezes
Bones’ elbow and they disappear down the hallway.

I stare at the empty doorway for several
seconds. He was a strange man. But then again, he was in a loony bin. I glance
down at that notebook. Right under Millie B. Story’s name are the words “Lou’s
real name.” I look back up at the vacant entryway. Could it be?

***

Lou’s name is not Millie B. Story. I am
sure of that. I lay in my bed churning Millie B. Story’s name over in my mind’s
eye. I chastise myself several times for not being able to remember Lou’s real
name. She told me. I can’t remember where or when, but I can picture the
expression of her face when she said it.

I sit up in bed. The decaying face of a
woman looks at me from the foot of the bed. “Are you Millie B. Story?” I ask
her. She stares at me blankly, as the dead are apt to do. “I guess not. I don’t
even think Millie B. Story is Millie B. Story,” I laugh. The dead woman does
not join in. I yawn.

Nurse Kline’s face appears in the square
window of my room and the dead scatter. I wave to her not expecting her to wave
back, but she does. She looks different somehow. Expectant almost. She’s not
merely checking in on me as she normally does. I catch a glimpse of my hand as
I finish my wave. It looks different, too. Some of the hair is gone. I’m too
afraid to let myself think it, but my hand looks younger.

A dead boy whispers from the corner of
the room, “I don’t even think Millie B. Story is Millie B. Story.”

“Copycat,” I say. I see the notebook on
the floor by the bed and pick it up. I begin to doodle. “Millie isn’t Millie,”
I say in a sing-song tone. A few of the dead join in. We form an eerie chorus
that begins to chill me to the bone. “That’s enough,” I say, but they continue
without me. The boy who had spoken earlier repeats his line, “I don’t even
think Millie B. Story is Millie B. Story.” I cup my hands over my ears. “Shut
up!” I scream. I peer down at the notebook now resting in my lap. It hits me.
“Millie B. Story isn’t Millie B. Story. Millie B. Story is Lou’s real name.” I
smile. “Not her real name, no. But her real name is in Millie B. Story.” I had
been looking at it all wrong. It’s not the name that matters. It’s the letters
in the name. I frantically start rearranging them in the notebook. I am
terrible at these kinds of puzzles. I rearrange and rearrange and rearrange
until I have a jumbled mess of letters on the page in front of me.

The door to my room opens and I shove
the notebook under my pillow. Chester walks in. “Doc Graham wants to see you,”
he says.

“What for?” I ask.

“Don’t know,” he says, “Does it matter?”

“Not to you,” I say.

He snaps his fingers. “Now you’re
getting it.” He steps aside and sticks out his meaty paw, inviting me to pass
through the open door. “After you, Nutty McCrazy.”

I hesitate. I am reluctant to leave my
notebook behind. It’s as if the words will vanish from the page if I leave my
room. Chester clamps down on my shoulder with his thick, heavy fingers and
pushes me toward the door.

“Apparently you have this idea that I’m
a patient man,” Chester groans. “I’m not.”

I flinch in pain. We head down the
hallway toward Dr. Graham’s office. “Hey, Chester,” I say. “You ever wonder if
you’re a man dreaming you’re a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming you’re a man.”

“What?” He says in a dubious tone.

“Are you a butterfly or a man?”

“You see wings on my back?”

I scoff because he doesn’t understand
the question. “The way I see it,” I say, “butterflies don’t have much of a
brain. They might not even know the difference between a dream and reality.”

“So?”

“So, I know the difference. I can’t be a
dream.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,
but if you got a butterfly brain you probably ain’t spending a whole lot of
time on what’s real and what’s not.” We turned the corridor. “Besides,
butterflies don’t sleep. How can they dream?”

***

The first question I ask Dr. Graham is
if butterflies sleep. He is of course confused. I don’t pursue the line of
questioning. He sits across from me writing in his notebook. We sit for a full
five minutes before he speaks.