99 Souls Read online

  From somewhere in the middle of the class, Megan stood up and asked, “Is something wrong?”

  “You’re not in trouble, dear. Please just step outside with me for a minute.”

  But you could tell from the way the blood drained from Megan’s face she didn’t believe the secretary. This was probably because, to Megan’s knowledge, she’d never come to get anybody who wasn’t in trouble. Apparently she wasn’t the only one who felt that way, since half-a-dozen students in her class made the “oooh” sound kids make when one of their own gets sent to the principal’s office and the boy whose desk was two in front of hers said, “You’re in trouuuuuble,” as she eased past.

  She flicked his ear in response.

  He winced. “Ouch!”

  The collective “oooh” turned into giggling, and the teacher told everyone to “quiet down” as Megan slipped past the secretary into the hall.

  The secretary put a hand on her back, easing her along.

  “Ms. Winslow,” Megan said with surprise when she saw her. “What are you doing here?”

  The secretary closed the door.

  “Come with me,” Sarah said, leading Megan away from the classroom, and both Jim and the secretary fell into step behind them. But Sarah didn’t want the secretary to be a part of this discussion. When they’d arrived at the school, she’d only told the woman that Megan was her babysitter and she needed to speak to her, which was all Sarah wanted her to know. If she heard Sarah ask the questions she wanted to ask, she might wonder why Sarah was talking to Megan instead of the police, which could in turn lead to a series of uncomfortable questions... or worse.

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” Sarah said to her, “I’d like to speak to her privately.”

  At first, the secretary looked shocked, as if Sarah had no right to tell her, in her school, that she should “hang back,” as the kids would say, especially considering Megan wasn’t her daughter. Then the expression passed. She cleared her throat, pushed her glasses back up her nose, and said, “Whatever you like.”

  Sarah smiled a “thank you,” then she and Megan headed farther down the hall.

  Jim stayed by the classroom with the secretary and waited.

  Once they were far enough away that Sarah was sure they wouldn’t be overheard, she leaned down so that she and Megan were on the same level. “Last time you took Brandon out of the house, did you see anything unusual?” she whispered.

  “Like what?”

  “Anything at all. Did you see anybody watching him? Did anybody come up and speak to him?”

  Uneasy, Megan tugged at her sleeves. “Not that I can remember.”

  Sarah put her hands on Megan’s shoulders and stared straight into her eyes. “Are you sure? You’re not in trouble, no matter what the answer. It’s really important.”

  Megan looked away, as if ashamed or embarrassed. “I really can’t remember anything like that. What is this about? What happened?”

  Sarah sighed, not sure whether she should burden Megan with the truth. “Brandon’s missing,” she finally said.

  “Jesus!”

  “If you think of anything, anything at all—”

  Megan nodded. “I’ll let you know. I promise.”

  “Just me, though, okay?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you think of anything, just tell me. Don’t tell anyone else. Also, don’t tell anyone that Brandon’s missing. That’s very important.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Okay. But, why?”

  “It’s complicated. I wish I had time to explain it,” Sarah said, which wasn’t exactly true, since she suspected any explanation would only raise more questions. “But you trust me, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then, please, promise me, you’ll only tell me.”

  “Okay. I promise.”

  Sarah signed with relief. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll call you if I think of anything.”

  “I lost my cell phone. But I’ll check in with you in a couple hours.”

  Megan sniffled and nodded and Sarah recognized for the first time that she was about to start crying. “Hey, he’s going to turn up.”

  Megan nodded again, but still seemed close to tears, so instead of trying to say anything else, Sarah hugged her. She realized that she needed that hug as much as Megan did. They held each other for a long time, each drawing strength from the other, until Megan seemed like she would be okay. Then Sarah led Megan back to where Jim and the secretary were standing.

  Megan offered a weak smile and returned to her desk.

  As Sarah and Jim followed the secretary back down the hall, footsteps again echoing, echoing, off steel lockers, plaster walls, linoleum floors, fading into an abyss of silent nothingness, Jim asked, “Did she know anything?”

  “No,” Sarah said. “I don’t think so.”

  Behind them, a classroom door creaked open. “Ms. Winslow?”

  All three of them stopped and turned.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” Megan said.

  Sarah hurried back to the girl. She pushed the classroom door closed and again kneeled down in front of her.

  “What is it?”

  “I... like... Well, there was this one time a couple weeks ago where you had me watch Brandon for you. See, um, I kinda had this date with a really cute guy, and I couldn’t say no to you so... I may have kinda had a friend take him to the movies for me.”

  “What?” Sarah’s voice had turned to ice, the emotional rollercoaster she was on ascending toward fury. How could Megan leave her son with a stranger?

  “I know this girl. She’s really nice and she took good care of him.”

  “You left him with somebody else and didn’t tell me about it?”

  “I didn’t think it’d be a big deal. But... well... maybe she saw something.”

  Chapter 23

  AT SHORTLY AFTER NINE AM, TREVOR BORIN awoke. He didn’t want to be awake yet, but rolled from the bed, showered, and dressed with a nervous anticipation unfamiliar to him. He went down to the first floor and through a small doorway under the staircase. From there, another set of stairs took him to the basement.

  In contrast to the rest of the house, the basement was utilitarian to the extreme. Raked cement floors. Cinderblock walls. Exposed wiring. He flipped on the light switch. A single bulb glowed a bright one hundred watts from a socket that had been attached to one of the overhead support beams. Directly beneath the bulb sat a long wooden table. Stained and scarred, it had been abandoned by the previous owners of the house. On it sat two work lamps with adjustable arms.

  He turned both of them on. Long shadows stretched out from the sculpting stand in front of him. Trevor grabbed the bib apron which hung from a nail on a nearby post and put it on. Perhaps dress clothes were not the best choice for the messy work that lay ahead, but he never wore anything else.

  Finally, after scooping a handful of greasy clay from a bucket on the floor and plopping the shapeless mass onto the table, he was ready to begin. He used a tinfoil ball on the top of the sculpting stand to shape the head and a variety of tools that looked like they belonged to civilizations long past to remake Brandon’s doll.

  For many, this would be time consuming, even tedious, work. But Trevor did not belong to the many. He moved swiftly through even the finest details.

  Dozens of other ceramic dolls watched with glassy-eyed sadness from shelves facing him. Each one was unique and among them were all the ghosts of ghosts Brandon had seen. The soldier who had been trying to break down the door stood erect and in mid-salute. The boy who’d been mumbling to himself in the corner here had his hands clasped loosely in front of him and wore a big smile. There was the homeless man, the girl who’d peed on herself, the woman in the bright red sweater, the girl who’d tried to break a window with a Transformer, and so many more.

  Trevor could remember every detail of them without the aid of a photograph, which is how he’d been able to craft the dolls with such a
ccuracy. That was no less true with Brandon. Just as he had with the boy’s first doll, he worked his tools with precision, shaping the nose, the lips, the eyes, the ears, and accounting for the subtle differences we all have between the left and right sides of our faces.

  When finished, he placed the mounted doll into the kiln and heated it to 925 degrees Celsius.

  WHILE TREVOR WAS WAITING for the doll to bake and Sarah was crossing the school to interrogate the unknown babysitter, Mark Hammond and Les Armstrong headed back to police headquarters, contemplating their options.

  They agreed the Amber Alert they’d put out earlier wasn’t enough. However, they hadn’t yet agreed on what to do next.

  “We need to get the story on the news,” Les said. “They can’t hide if the whole city’s looking for them.” She knew Mark didn’t like going to the press for help. He had said more than once that television talking heads were nothing more than career-driven left-wingers who couldn’t be trusted to get a story straight. More importantly, it wasn’t their job to do his. But her motherly instincts told her it was a good idea.

  Hammond chewed the inside of his cheek, then pulled a pack of Marlboros from his coat pocket and lit a cigarette. He cracked the window, took one long drag, and said, “I guess we could put out a press release. Maybe call some local reporters in for a brief Q and A. They’ll take the bait if we spin it right and the story could be on the air by five.” He took another drag. “But that’d be pushin’ twenty fours and that’s a long time for someone to be missing.” Another drag and he chewed his cheek some more. “I know a guy.”

  Les had no doubt that Mark cared about finding the missing boy, but she didn’t know how much until now. Mark’s willingness to go to the press spoke volumes. Maybe he had some motherly instincts of his own.

  “But you’ll have to talk to him. Use your feminine wiles, give him photos of Sarah and Jim, and he’ll get it on the twelve o’clock news. Wear a low-cut blouse and he might even get it on again at five.”

  He took his eyes off the traffic to glance over at Les’s top. “That should do just fine.”

  “You’re funny. You have his number on you?”

  “Right. Like that’s a number I’d carry around. When they find me dead and rotting from overexposure to your perfume, the last thing I want any Tom Dick thinkin’ is that I was friends with one of those guys. I’ve got it back at the station in my Rolodex.”

  “We’re not waiting until we get back to the station.”

  Another long drag. “Fine. Call WSB. Ask for Tom Trout.”

  WSB was a local station with a large audience, but the name Tom Trout didn’t register in Les’s memory. Probably a staff writer, she figured. She dialed information, which connected her to the main number, which in turn led her to a gate keeper. “Can you connect me to Tom Trout, please?” she asked.

  “Who?” the receptionist responded.

  “Hold on a second.” Les covered the microphone with one hand and asked Mark, “Are you sure that’s his name?”

  Mark huffed, cursed, and mumbled something else about talking heads. “He goes by Tom Lawrence. I never asked why. Probably wanted a name that sounded more professional. No matter what anybody tells you, though, that’s not his real name.”

  Her eyes widened. Tom Lawrence? He was the guy for lunchtime news. Witty and charming, with an actor’s smile. Everyone liked him. Just to make sure, she asked, “You mean the reporter?”

  “You’re calling a news station, aren’t you?”

  “Not a gofer or someone who just happens to have the same name?”

  “Just ask for him, would ya?”

  She turned her attention back to the phone call. “I’m sorry for the delay,” she said to the receptionist. “I meant Tom Lawrence.”

  “May I tell him who’s calling?”

  “Les Armstrong. Tell him I’m a detective with the APD and a friend of Mark Hammond’s.”

  “Hold, please.”

  “How do you know him?” she asked Mark as elevator music played in one ear.

  “High school. What difference does it make? Do you want to talk to him or do you want to talk to me?”

  “Do you even have to ask?” she said. “Unfortunately for you, I’m on hold.”

  “If he asks for me, tell him I’m not nearby.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want to speak to him and you have to see me every day so who do you really want liking you the most?”

  “That could change.”

  Then Tom answered, announcing himself by name. “So you’re a friend of Mark’s, huh?” he said, cheerfully. “How’s he doin’?”

  “Grumpy and old.”

  Tom laughed. “Sounds like Mark. What can I do for you? Kind of in a rush here.”

  “We got a situation you might be interested in. Got time on the twelve o’clock?”

  “Wait. Mark gave you my number to try to get something on the news? Boy, that’s not like him. What have you got?”

  “A missing boy.”

  “That’s too bad,” he said. “Yours?”

  “No, but we’re up against a wall on this one and could really use your help.”

  “Isn’t that what Amber Alerts are for? I tell you what, since this is for Mark, we can probably get his picture on the air before a commercial break with a number to call, if you like. I don’t mean to sound callous, but milk cartons are covered with pictures of missing kids, aren’t they? They used to be, anyway. The point is, it’s just not really a story, you know?”

  Les was starting to understand why Mark didn’t like reporters.

  “We think he’s still alive,” she added, “but we don’t know how much longer he will be. Our two best suspects took off when we tried to arrest one of them.”

  “Sounds a little more like a story. Keep talking.”

  “I’m on the task force for the ‘God is Blind’ killers. We don’t want to see another body turn up.”

  “Are you saying you think this abduction could be connected to those killings?”

  “It could be.” With Sarah their main suspect, Les didn’t actually believe there was a connection between Brandon’s disappearance and the “God is Blind” murders, but she knew it made for a more enticing story if she implied there might be.

  “All right, email me photos of your suspects and all the details you can in the next thirty minutes and I’ll do my best to get a story on the air for you. Hey, if this really turns out to be something, tell Mark I owe him.”

  “Will do.”

  “But I’m not making any promises. Ultimately, it’s up to the producers.”

  “I understand.”

  “Also, I reserve the right to quote anything you’ve said in this conversation to the best of my recollection, as well as anything you email me.”

  “Sounds fair.”

  “Okay. Gotta run. I’ll call you after I get the email if I’ve got any last-minute questions.”

  “No problem,” Les said. “Thanks.” She ended the call and shoved her phone into her purse. Mark was gritting his teeth and holding the steering wheel so tightly his fingers had turned white. “What?” she said defensively. “It could be related to the ‘God is Blind’ killings.”

  “You’re as bad as they are.”

  Chapter 24

  BRANDON WAS UNABLE TO FORM AN escape plan. The ghosts of ghosts were no help, either. But to be fair, he hadn’t asked them for any. They weren’t living people, after all. They weren’t even souls. They were more meaningful than holograms because they were stains on the fabric of life, itself, yet they were no more capable of original thought or action than any other stain was.

  His mom would find him, he told himself. She was out there looking, because she was a good mom, and she would find him. She would. If she has enough time...

  As he sat cross-legged on the floor, watching the doorknob, waiting for it to turn and for the bad man to come in, a shiver ran through his body.

  As if on cue, a
key turned in the skeleton lock.

  Suddenly, he had an idea. He ran over to the wall beside the door and pushed himself flat against it. Head to the side, holding his breath, he waited.

  The door swung open. The bad man stepped inside. Brandon watched him through the crack between the open door and the wall. Again dressed in a suit, he was carrying a glass of milk and a sandwich, presumably to offer him a second meal.

  “My child?” said the bad man as he stepped deeper into the room. “I know you’re in here. There’s no need to be afraid.” He placed the sandwich and glass of milk on the nightstand beside the dirty dishes, then kneeled to look underneath the bed.

  Almost scared enough to wet himself, Brandon slipped quietly from behind the door. He wanted to cry and vomit and pass out now that he was fully exposed. Instead, he ran.

  With no attempt to quiet his footfalls, he scrambled down the stairs, through the foyer. The bad man called his name. Grabbing the crystal doorknob that was almost eye-level, Brandon wrenched open the door. The bad man was back there somewhere. Too close. He didn’t dare look. He had to keep moving, out the door, into the sunlight...

  TREVOR TURNED HIS HEAD in time to see the boy slip out the bedroom door and run down the stairs. “Brandon!” he shouted, getting back to his feet.

  From the top of the staircase, he saw Brandon struggling with the doorknob for the front door. When the boy got the door open, sunlight flooded the foyer, seeping across the polished wood floors.

  Trevor descended the stairs. He could still catch Brandon before the boy made it off his property. He launched himself over the bottom six stairs and landed on both feet, knees bent. At the same time, two shadows, one on each side of the doorway, appeared from nowhere. Before Trevor could break into a run, Anxo and Simiel stepped into the foyer.

  They belonged to a brotherhood of thousands who claimed physical form when they wanted to by knotting the fabric of the universe into itself. They were bald and without eyebrows and had glittering gold and gray eyes. Their white, shimmering bodies were draped in white, shimmering robes. In fact, even though mankind knew they existed, they were so different from the way they’d been described that they’d likely be called aliens by anyone who saw them. Aliens, however, were fictional. The two beings standing in Trevor’s foyer were not.