The Devil's bed

“Yes.”

“I see. And what do you think of all this, Chris?”

“I don’t want to make it seem as if I’m not giving any credence to Agent Thorsen’s concerns. And I’m sure you would prefer that all precautions be taken in protecting your father. The reality is that any investigation related to your father’s present condition is not our responsibility or jurisdiction. Your safety, not your father’s, should be our only concern.”

“I appreciate your position, Chris. How do you feel about this, Bo?

“My responsibility is here, protecting you at Wildwood.”

“And if I prefer otherwise?”

Bo considered for a moment her stern, gray eyes. “With all due respect, your preference is not what governs my actions.”

“I see.” She folded her hands and regarded both men with an unflinching gaze. Finally she said, “Very well.”

Agent Manning excused himself. “I have duties to attend to.”

Bo started after him, and Annie rose. “Bo, let me see you out.” She took his arm.

As they walked to the front door, Bo said, “I’m sorry about in there.” He nodded back toward the kitchen. “But my hands are tied, Annie.”

“You think that’s the end of it?” She opened the door for him. As he stepped out she said, “You don’t know Kate.”

chapter fourteen

The first time, he wasn’t even fourteen years old.

The basement of the old farmhouse was home to Nocturne. In summer, the walls were cool and damp, home also to potato bugs, spiders, and centipedes. In winter, it was a cold, drafty place despite the ancient oil-burning furnace that heated water for the radiators upstairs. The basement was full of boxes stuffed with broken things and items that had belonged to Nocturne’s grandmother and that the old man had put down there in order to forget. Nocturne’s mother told him his grandmother had been a school-teacher. Some boxes held books, some held magazines. Some were packed with clothing, others were full of small broken electrical appliances-a mixer, an iron, a table lamp, a heating pad, and the like. On her good, lucid days, his mother read to him. Although books and magazines were available, she always read from the Bible, always from the Old Testament. Sitting beside her, watching her finger move under the printed words, the boy had learned early to read on his own, and he loved it. In the long days by himself, he eventually went through all the printed material contained in the boxes, mostly elementary textbooks and stacks ofNational Geographic. He practically memorized every word of the books of the Bible. He devoured cover to cover a set ofEncyclopedia Britannicawith moldy pages. His favorite book was a sketchy biography of Harry Houdini. He also loved to fiddle with the old electric appliances so that he might understand their construction and make them run again. His mother was a reluctant conspirator. After he’d asked her many times, she sneaked him wire and tools. She cautioned him fearfully never to mention any of this to his grandfather, and Nocturne obeyed her absolutely.

There was an old RCA radio console in one corner that he worked on for weeks until he coaxed voices from the airwaves. From what he heard on the radio and read in his books, he formed ideas of the outside world. Although he loved the dark of his basement, he longed to see more. He sensed that his life was odd and that he must be odd to be living it. Yet, there were people in the world stranger even than he, people with lips like dinner plates and necks stretched like giraffes and green tattoos over every inch of their faces. In such a world, one more freak would hardly be noticed. Locked in the basement, Nocturne dreamed of those places and people. On the nights his mother released him and they walked outside in the dark, he imagined they were in Africa, and in the trees gorillas slept, and somewhere out of sight a village of big-lipped, long-necked, tattooed people were waiting to welcome him. He loved the night and the walks, and he hated waiting to be released. So he began to plan his escape.

There was a laundry chute, no longer used, that dropped from the second-floor bathroom to the basement. Although he’d often stared up into the black of the shaft, he was nine years old before he thought of it seriously as a way out. One night he piled crates and boxes high enough beneath the opening so that when he stood on the top box, his torso fit inside the chute. It was a square, fifteen inches on each side, lined with smooth tin. He tried to pull himself up, but there was nothing to grasp. He pressed against the tin sides and only felt himself slip. He realized his clothing allowed him no traction. He climbed down, stripped naked, then mounted once again. This time when he pressed against the sides of the chute, his body held. He inched upward, pushing with his palms, holding with the press of his legs. He made progress, but it was hard work, and he soon gave up, exhausted after moving only a few feet.