Spore Page 15

  “No, afraid not,” Sean said, covering a yawn with his fist. “I have some questions, if you have some time.”

  “If you’re going through half of what I imagine after seeing you on the news, I’d expect you to have a lot of concerns.” Bailey grasped his coffee and leaned back. “Since I’m confident you’re not a crackpot, let’s hear those questions.”

  Sean chewed his lip, uncertain where to begin. “Why don’t we start with the elephant in the room,” he said. “The spores.”

  “What do you think?” Bailey asked. “Not the obviously edited sound bites I see on TV, but what you feel in your heart.”

  “To me, they’re a miracle, a sign of hope that we can have another chance to do things right. A lot of people disagree, though. I’ve recently been told the spores might be rounded up, might be imprisoned or killed if I can’t help them.”

  “Fear drives most people,” Bailey said, nodding. “Change. Uncertainty. When known rhythms suddenly shift, it knocks a lot of beliefs out of whack and makes people doubt their faith and beliefs. This is a very unusual time. A frightening time.”

  “I have a group in front of my house this very minute with signs calling to burn the spores alive because they’re abominations to be cleansed. There’s another group demanding we all kneel before them like they’re gods.” Sean sighed and lowered his head. “They’re neither of those things. What happened to them is a miracle, but they’re just people.”

  “People who’ve been resurrected,” Bailey gently corrected. “Brought back from the dead.”

  “But that doesn’t make them any less human. They’re not to be idolized or feared.”

  “Okay, how about this,” Bailey said. “Most everyone knows of Christ rising from his crypt, right?”

  Sean nodded. “Sure.”

  “Well, you’d remember from Sunday school that Jesus also raised Lazarus? Another miracle. But some believe that Lazarus was killed, murdered by a fearful mob, after his resurrection.” Bailey paused to give Sean a sad smile. “Fear and worship often run hand in hand. Never forget that, Sean. It’s how so much evil has polluted the teachings of Christ, how so many churches have lost their way and now preach hate instead of help.”

  Sean stared at his knees, his thoughts churning. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked, raising his head. “I want to help, to keep them safe, like I’ve been asked to…”

  “But you’re afraid.”

  “Yes. But there’s no one else to speak for them. If I don’t find a way to save them, they could all be tortured or killed. But if I do stand for them, I could be arrested. Or killed. Or my house burned down, or who knows what. Some of those people picketing my house are crazy and furious. That’s a scary combination.”

  “I can’t make that choice for you, Sean. Even if you were still a member of my congregation, I couldn’t. This burden is yours and yours alone.”

  I know, Sean thought, staring at his knees again. But I’d hoped you’d have more guidance than this.

  “Okay,” Bailey said, leaning forward and setting aside his coffee mug. “When you look at yourself in the mirror, when you look into your own eyes, your own soul, does that soul want to step aside or defend them?”

  “You’re asking if I’m weak or strong.”

  “No, I’m asking what you, deep down, believe. There’s no right or wrong answer, only your answer.”

  “I believe I’m one bounced check away from not being able to buy groceries next week,” Sean sighed. “I believe politicians are crooks, the sun will rise tomorrow, and that I’ll love Mare ‘til the day I die.”

  Bailey smiled. “Those are all honest, reasonable convictions. What about your spores? What convictions do you have about them?”

  “They’re human,” Sean said, his voice firm as he met Bailey’s gentle gaze. “No different from you or me.”

  “Then stop looking at them as miracles. If you don’t deify them, maybe others will stop demonizing them.”

  Sean smiled. “Thank you. That helped.”

  “You’re welcome, but you’d have gotten there on your own eventually. What else have you got?”

  “Nothing. Just wanted your take on how to handle this whole resurrection mess. Thought you might have some insight, it being your bread and butter and all.”

  “That’s it?” Bailey asked, leaning forward. “A little nudge to an answer you’d have found on your own?”

  “Pretty much, yeah. Just some help past the uncertainty.” Sean shrugged. “Out of curiosity, if you were me, what would you do about the spores?”

  Bailey walked around his desk. “I’d hope they had good lungs. We’re a little short in the choir.”

  Sean chuckled. As he stood to go, Bailey said, “I don’t think I’m quite done with you yet.”

  Sean paused and faced the pastor. “Did your daughter want another Ghoulie poster or a couple of comi—“

  “Sit,” Bailey said, gesturing toward Sean’s chair. His tone was not to be disobeyed.

  Sean sat, worry gnawing at his belly. “Is something up with my mom?” he asked as the pastor sat at the edge of his desk.

  “She’s fine as far as I know,” Bailey said, leaning forward, his hands gripping his thighs. “I want to talk about you.”

  “Me?” Sean sat back, blinking. “I haven’t done anything worth—“

  “Sean,” Bailey said softly. “When’s the last time you slept?”

  “I… I slept last night.”

  “Uh huh. For how long?”

  “Well, um,” Sean felt his cheeks get hot as he tried to figure out a way to dodge the question.

  Bailey pressed, “In one stretch, without waking, how long did you sleep last night?”

  Great, he had to be specific. Sean shrugged and stared at Bailey’s knees. “Twenty, twenty-five minutes at a time. Maybe. Off and on all night.” I’ve spent more time awake than asleep, lately. He took a breath and raised his gaze again. “I don’t watch the clock. It’s too depressing.”

  “Most people don’t dream if they sleep in twenty minute bursts. Do they?”

  Despite fidgeting, there was no avoiding the question. “No.”

  “But you do. Still?”

  “Sometimes,” Sean admitted. “Usually I wake myself up before-hand. But not always.”

  Bailey nodded and released a tired sigh. “Still having nightmares, then?”

  Again, there was no avoiding the question, but Sean grimaced and looked away. “Yeah, they never really stopped.”

  Silence lingered between them for a few moments, like a bag of snakes struggling to break loose. Snakes Sean did not want to look at, ever, ever again.

  “Have they increased because of the recent child abductions and murders?”

  “Maybe. Probably.” Sean shrugged and let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know, but they’re worse. Yes.”

  “Are they still the same dreams as after your abduction?”

  Sean flinched, shaking his head, and gripped the chair arms tight enough to make his fingers ache. “Let’s not talk about that, okay?”

  “No, it’s not okay,” Bailey said, stepping toward Sean. He knelt and touched the younger man’s hand. “I know you left youth group, left the church because of the nightmares—“

  “And the harassment, let’s not forget that,” Sean snapped.

  “Children can be cruel, yes,” Bailey said. “But you’re not a child anymore, you’ve grown to be a good, caring man, but you still carry the trauma—“

  “I don’t think about it,” Sean said. “I don’t. I can’t, okay? It’s just a big empty hole in my mind. A couple of weeks of nothing at all. And if I do try to think, to remember, the hole just sucks me in. I can’t live my life, I can’t do my job, I can’t do anything. I don’t want to waste all of my time looking for something that’s not there, to wallow in the d
arkness—“

  “Sean,” Bailey interrupted, “you’re incredibly talented and you could have become a successful artist or designer—“

  “But instead I just draw a crappy ass horror comic, is that what you’re saying?”

  “No, I’m saying that you insist on drawing horror because your subconscious is still coming to terms with what happened when you were a child. Your conscious mind may have blocked it out, but deep, deep down in your brain, in your memories, in your soul, you’re still screaming and terrified. Kids are being taken, like you were, and, like you, your spores were gone a long time then came back. I think the combination has triggered something in your head. While I understand and applaud your desire to be the spore’s champion, I don’t think they’re helping you.”

  “I told you,” Sean said, cutting his gaze away from Bailey’s patient stare, “they’re just people.”

  “I believe you. But I saw you the morning they first came. You were relaxed. You looked rested, better than I’d seen you since losing your foster son, and while the situation was crazy, you were handling it just fine.”

  Sean glared at Bailey. “So now I’m not?”

  “I think you’re holding up as best you can,” Bailey said. “But, as your friend, I worry about what all of this is doing to your psyche.”

  “I’m fine,” Sean said. “Just a little stressed.”

  Bailey nodded, his gaze grave. “Anyone would be stressed, but most people would still manage more than twenty minutes of sleep, out of utter exhaustion if nothing else.”

  Sean glowered but said nothing.

  “So the dreams are the same? A Minotaur looming in the dark? A dog eating you alive?”

  “Yeah,” Sean admitted. “Sometimes I’m chased, sometimes I’m tied, but yeah, it’s the same stuff. Before the spores came, I might go a week or so with some other kind of nightmare if I dreamt at all—falling, being crushed, being lost, normal stuff—but, sooner or later, I’d be back in the dark with the Minotaur and his damned dog.”

  Bailey nodded. “Are they worse now? Since the kidnappings and the spores?”

  “Been waking up screaming again,” Sean admitted with a shrug.

  “I thought you hadn’t done that since you were thirteen.”

  “I hadn’t. Well, once in almost forever I would, but now it’s nearly every night.”

  “If you allow yourself to dream,” Bailey said.

  Sean nodded. “Yeah. I’ve even put myself back on the meds, and they’re not helping.”

  “So what’s changed in the dreams? Since this started, what’s made the Minotaur and his dog more frightening?”

  Sean took a breath and forced his hands to unclench the chair arm. “Ghoulie, well, me… My feet are gone. Cut off, eaten, I don’t know why, but they’re gone. When I realize that, I wake up screaming.” He looked away and thought, that dream’s always made me scream. It just used to be a rarity, not every fucking night.

  “So your subconscious is connecting your memories to these new crimes?”

  “What?” Sean leaned forward, perplexed. “Nothing’s changed, not really. They’re just bigger, bloodier, and more frequent.”

  Bailey shook his head, his eyes growing wide. “You haven’t been watching the news?”

  “Not if I can help it. I saw myself on TV once. That was enough, thanks anyway.”

  Bailey rounded his desk and dragged out a waste bin stashed beneath, then fished out a tidily folded newspaper. He tossed it to Sean. “It’s yesterday’s Tribune. Look at it.”

  Sean unfolded the paper and, as he read the headline, darkness flowed over his vision.

  It read, THIRD FOOTLESS CHILD FOUND DEAD.

  Mindy held steady in the middle of the kitchen as her boss yelled at her for screwing up the evening dessert menu. Camille’s voice seemed to rise with every syllable. “I told you use leftover frosting on the sheet cake, not make…confections.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mindy sighed. “I just thought the residents might like something pretty.”

  “We’re not here to provide pretty. We’re here to feed them quickly and cheaply before they croak. That’s frosted sheet cake cut into squares. I don’t have time for this. If you can’t follow simple instructions, you can find another job.”

  Without a social security card or ID? Not likely. I need this job to pay a lawyer to go after Jeff so I can get my life back. Lowering her gaze, Mindy nodded and said, “Yes, ma’am. Sheet cake. I won’t mess it up again.”

  “You’d better not. At the rate the patients are dying off, those cupcakes will last longer than this nursing home will.” Camille muttered an expletive and stomped off to holler at the woman peeling potatoes at the sink.

  “Don’t let her get to you,” Juanita whispered as she huffed past with a huge pot of water. “I think they’re beautiful.”

  “Thanks,” Mindy whispered back. She finished icing the last few and looked up to see the elderly dishwasher, a nearly silent woman named Ramonna, watching her. “I’m just about done with this bowl,” Mindy said, assuming Ramonna wanted to wash it.

  “Cuánto… No, ah… How costo? How cost?” Ramonna asked, gesturing toward the tray of cupcakes. “Dos docenas el sábado, ah… Saturdo?”

  Juanita returned and laid a gentle hand on Ramonna’s narrow shoulder. “She wants to know how much two dozen would cost if you were to make them by Saturday.”

  “For this?” Mindy asked, confused. “Spruced up cake with a little ganache?”

  Juanita spoke to Ramonna who replied in rapid Spanish. “Her granddaughter turns nine this weekend and she would rather pay you for such pretty little cakes made with love than purchase plain ones at the store.”

  “Oh. Um… I don’t know,” Mindy said, thinking. A couple of bucks for the cakes, another couple, maybe, for the ganache, something for sprinkles. But I don’t know if Mare has cupcake cups or food coloring or anything, so I might have to buy supplies. “Ten dollars?” she suggested. “I’ll have to buy the paper cups and all, at least.”

  Juanita translated and Ramonna beamed. “Diez dólares, sí. Gracias amable señora,” she said, nodding eagerly. “Gracias.”

  “You’re welcome,” Mindy said, smiling as the old woman returned to her washing. She met Juanita’s cheery gaze and asked, “Was that too cheap?”

  “Maybe a little,” Juanita admitted. “But they are very pretty, and you were very kind to agree to make them.”

  Mindy twirled the last cupcake in the ganache. “I love baking and I’m happy to make a couple of dozen for her granddaughter.”

  “You are a good soul,” Juanita said, ducking back to her station as Camille barked at them to stop talking.

  After taking a moment to confirm the townhome’s address on his slip of paper, Sean pulled in behind the sheriff’s SUV and turned off the ignition. A woman walking a fluffy little dog eyed him warily and he couldn’t blame her. His wheezy Chevy stood out in the neighborhood of matching townhomes, immaculate lawns, and pristine import cars.

  He gave the woman a reassuring smile and nod, then snatched up Bailey’s newspaper. Feeling exposed and out of place, he walked to a cheery porch of concrete and brick, the mirror image of the one next door. He rang the doorbell. Nothing. So he rang it again and confirmed the address one more time. I’m at the right place, but everything looks the same. With curvy roads and matching houses, how do people not get lost around here?

  Another woman, this one pushing a stroller, narrowed her eyes at him as she pushed her little darling past. Sean pulled open the storm door to pound on the entry door behind. “I know you’re home!” he hollered into the jamb. “I need to talk to you!”

  He heard heavy thumps from within and a deadbolt release, then the door was snatched open and Todd stood there, glowering in a bathrobe and pointing a pistol at Sean’s head. “Oh, goddammit, it’s you,” he mutte
red, turning to shuffle away while his free hand rubbed his face. “With all the complaints and threats we’ve received, you’re lucky you didn’t get shot.”

  Sean took a steadying breath then followed. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, shaking the newspaper.

  Todd let loose a sputtering fart as he continued shuffling toward the kitchen. “Tell you what?” he asked.

  “About the dead kids,” Sean said, stopping just inside the kitchen doorway.

  “I don’t want to hear about any dead kids. It’s too damn early.” Todd opened the fridge and rummaged inside, finally producing a can of diet cola. He popped the top and took a long drink. Then he burped. “There, that’s better.”

  Sean crushed fury between his grinding teeth. “Don’t you think after what happened to me all those years ago, that I might want to know about more dead freaking kids?!?”

  Todd took another deep drink and muttered, “Didn’t know you were on the investigative team. Musta missed that memo.”

  “Oh now you’re being a smartass,” Sean said. “Thanks. Thanks for that. Again. Fuck you, Anderson.” He turned and headed toward the front door.

  “Sean, wait,” Todd said, following. “Why are you so upset about those kids?”

  Sean spun on his heel to glare at Todd.

  Todd took another deep drink, emptying the can. “In any way other than most anyone should be upset about dead kids, I mean.”

  “Is this the real reason you talked to me last night at Haps?” Sean asked, thrusting the newspaper toward Todd, who barely glanced at it. “You know about the bad shit that happened to me when I was a kid, when there was some murdering pervert on the loose. I’ve heard how you cops look for patterns, connections—“

  “Considering all the similarities, you were a potential person of interest, yes,” Todd said, lobbing the empty can into a waste basket in the corner. “The only known survivor of the Boone County Creeper and now this similar M.O. back here in your home turf? Honestly, Sean, since about half of child molesters were molested as kids, most any time a kid in Boone, Story, or Webster County goes missing, a cop drives by your place, just to be sure you’re home.”