“Where is Officer Wendy?” Smith asked. “Up at the house, maybe?”
“Where’s Stackhouse?” Tim countered. “You must have got that Officer Wendy thing from him, because the Sigsby woman’s dead.”
Smith shrugged, stuck his hands in the back pockets of his new jeans, rocked on his heels, and looked around. “Boy, it’s nice here, isn’t it?” Nice came out niyth, but the lisp really was very light, mostly not there at all.
Tim decided not to pursue the Stackhouse question. It was obvious he wouldn’t get anywhere with it, and besides, Stackhouse was old news. He might be in Brazil; he might be in Argentina or Australia; he might be dead. It made no difference to Tim where he was. And the man with the lisp was right; there was no point in dancing.
“Deputy Gullickson is in Columbia, at a closed hearing about the shoot-out that happened last summer.”
“I assume she has a story those committee folks will buy.”
Tim had no interest in confirming this assumption. “She’ll also attend some meetings where the future of law enforcement here in Fairlee County will be discussed, since the goons you sent wiped most of it out.”
Smith spread his hands. “I and the people I work with had nothing to do with that. Mrs. Sigsby acted entirely on her own.”
Maybe true but also not true, Tim could have said. She acted because she was afraid of you and the people you work with.
“I understand that George Iles and Helen Simms are gone,” Mr. Smith said. Simms came out Simmth. “Young Mr. Iles to an uncle in California, Miss Simms to her grandparents in Delaware.”
Tim didn’t know where the lisping man was getting his information—Norbert Hollister was long gone, the DuPray Motel closed with a FOR SALE sign out front that would probably stay there for a long time—but it was good information. Tim had never expected to go unnoticed, that would have been naïve, but he didn’t like the depth of Mr. Smith’s knowledge about the kids.
“That means that Nicholas Wilholm and Kalisha Benson are still here. And Luke Ellis, of course.” The smile reappeared, thinner now. “The author of all our misery.”
“What do you want, Mr. Smith?”
“Very little, actually. We’ll get to it. Meanwhile, let me compliment you. Not just on your bravery, which was apparent on the night you stormed the Institute pretty much single-handed, but on the care you and Officer Wendy have shown in the aftermath. You’ve been parceling them out, haven’t you? Iles first, about a month after returning to South Carolina. The Simms girl two weeks after him. Both with stories about being kidnapped for unknown reasons, held for an unknown length of time at an unknown location, then set free… also for unknown reasons. You and Officer Wendy managed to arrange all that while you must have been under some scrutiny yourselves.”
“How do you know all this?”
It was the lisping man’s turn not to answer, but that was all right. Tim guessed at least some of his information had come direct from the newspapers and the Internet. The return of kidnapped children was always news. “When do Wilholm and Benson go?”
Tim considered this and decided to answer. “Nicky leaves this Friday. To his uncle and aunt in Nevada. His brother is already there. Nick’s not crazy about going, but he understands he can’t stay here. Kalisha will stay another week or two. She has a sister, twelve years older, in Houston. Kalisha is eager to reconnect with her.” This was both true and not true. Like the others, Kalisha was suffering from PTSD.
“And their stories will also stand up to police scrutiny?”
“Yes. The stories are simple enough, and of course they’re all afraid of what might happen to them if they told the truth.” Tim paused. “Not that they’d be believed.”
“And young Mr. Ellis? What about him?”
“Luke stays with me. He has no close family and nowhere to go. He’s already returned to his studies. They soothe him. The boy is grieving, Mr. Smith. Grieving for his parents, grieving for his friends.” He paused, looking hard at the blond man. “I suspect he’s also grieving for the childhood your people stole from him.”
He waited for Smith to respond to this. Smith did not, so Tim went on.
“Eventually, if we can work out a story that’s reasonably watertight, he’ll pick up where he left off. Double enrollment at Emerson College and MIT. He’s a very smart boy.” As you well know, he didn’t need to add. “Mr. Smith… do you even care?”
“Not much,” Smith said. He took a pack of American Spirits from his breast pocket. “Smoke?”
Tim shook his head.
“I rarely do myself,” Mr. Smith said, “but I’ve been in speech therapy for my lisp, and I allow myself one as a reward when I am able to control it in conversation, especially a long and rather intense one, such as we are having. Did you notice that I lisp?”
“It’s very faint.”
Mr. Smith nodded, seemingly pleased, and lit up. The smell on the cool morning air was sweet and fragrant. A smell that seemed made for tobacco country, which this still was… although not at Catawba Farm since the nineteen-eighties.
“I hope you’re sure they will keep shtum, as the saying is. If any one of them talks, there would be consequences for all five. In spite of the flash drive you supposedly have. Not all of my… people… believe that actually exists.”
Tim smiled without showing his teeth. “It would be unwise for your… people… to test that idea.”
“I take your point. It would still be a very bad idea for those children to talk about their adventures in the Maine woods. If you’re in communication with Mr. Iles and Miss Simms, you might want to pass that along. Or perhaps Wilholm, Benson, and Ellis can get in touch with them by other means.”
“Are you talking about telepathy? I wouldn’t count on that. It’s reverting to what it was before your people took them. Same with the telekinesis.” He was telling Smith what the children had told him, but Tim wasn’t entirely sure he believed it. All he knew for certain was that awful hum had never come back. “How did you cover it up, Smith? I’m curious.”
“And so you shall remain,” the blond man said. “But I will tell you that it wathn’t just the installation in Maine that needed our attention. There were twenty other Institutes in other parts of the world, and none remain operational. Two of them—in countries where obedience is inculcated in children almost from birth—hung on for six weeks or so, and then there were mass suicides at both.” The word came out thooithides.
Mass suicides or mass murder? Tim wondered, but that wasn’t a topic he intended to raise. The sooner he was rid of this man, the better.
“The Ellis boy—with your help, very much with your help—has ruined us. That undoubtedly sounds melodramatic, but it’s the truth.”
“Do you think I care?” Tim asked. “You were killing children. If there’s a hell, you’ll go there.”
“While you, Mr. Jamieson, undoubtedly believe you’ll go to heaven, assuming there is such a place. And who knows, you might be right. What God could turn away a man who rides to the rescue of defenseless youngsters? If I may crib from Christ on the cross, you will be forgiven because you know not what you did.” He cast his cigarette aside. “But I am going to tell you. It’s what I came for, with the consent of my associates. Thanks to you and Ellis, the world is now on suicide watch.” This time the word came out clean.
Tim said nothing, just waited.
“The first Institute, although not by that name, was in Nazi Germany.”