Spore (16 page)

“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 muttered, 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.”

“Fuck you,” Sean spat, approaching the massive deputy. “I’m not a danger to anyone. The state crawled up my ass with a microscope when we went through the foster parent program and they knew kids would be safe with me. I was a damn good dad and I’d rather cut off my right arm than hurt any kid. You of all people should know that.”

“I was your friend back then too, remember? I know how fucked up you were.”

“Yeah. Right. Your mom wouldn’t even let us in the same class because she was convinced I’d hurt you.”

“Actually, it was because you’d suddenly got into horror novels and comics and slasher films and shit. I was twice your size.
No one
thought you could hurt me. Not even my mom. She was just weirded out.”

“So if I’m so goddamned creepy and a perennial suspect, why hasn’t anyone questioned me about these kids?”

“For starters, you have a deputy planted outside your door and your hermit schedule is utterly predictable. You’re home most of the time, or working at the bar, or, rarely, buying cheap shit at WalMart or the office supply store. You live a very exciting life, Seanny my boy.”

Sean started to speak but Todd added, “Plus another little boy went missing yesterday about the same time I left the bar. After playing with a neighbor, he called home to say he was on the way, but never made it the two blocks. Unless you can teleport twenty miles in less than ten minutes, you didn’t snatch him.”

Sean felt his knees weaken and he slumped against the wall. “So there’s more than three?”

“Five, actually. Six if you count the one they’re labeling a runaway,” Todd said, motioning for Sean to follow. “You want a pop?”

“Sure, okay,” Sean said, staggering behind.
Six kids. Good God, what’s happening?

“How much do you know about the kidnappings back in the nineties?” Todd asked as he dipped into the fridge again for two diet colas and a pizza box.

“Not much,” Sean admitted. “I vaguely remember hearing about it before I disappeared, but, shit, I was twelve. Invincible.”

Todd tossed him the pop. “Yeah, we all were at that age. And afterward… I still remember how freaked out your mom was, how she barely let you out of her sight for two seconds.”

“Yeah. I finally got away when I went to college. Like everything else, she decided to scrub my abduction clean and never speak of it again. I never did learn what really happened. There’s not much of anything online.”

Todd contemplated him for a moment. “It’s ugly. Sure you want to know?”

“Yeah,” Sean said. “Especially if what’s happening now is connected to what happened to me back then.”

“Okay.” Todd dropped the pizza and his pop on the kitchen table then yawned his way to a cupboard for paper plates. “Eleven kids disappeared from ninety two to ninety seven,” he said as he walked back. “I’ve dug through all the old files this past week. Boys, girls, black, white, ages from four to fourteen. No rhyme or reason to any of it, other than all were fine one moment, then gone the next.”

Sean accepted the plate and, at Todd’s urging, sat. “Were they all taken from outside like I was? Sidewalks, parks…”

“Nope,” Todd said as he sat and opened the pizza box. “Two were taken from stores and one was listed as a probable runaway. The fourteen-year-old, back in ninety-four. She’d been having trouble at school and her mom said she was upset over bullying classmates when she’d gone to her room, but was there, sleeping, around eleven.” He coaxed out a slice and slid it onto his plate.

“But gone in the morning?” Sean asked, grabbing one himself.

“Yeah. Want me to nuke that up for you?”

Sean shook his head as Todd continued.

“Everyone really thought she was a runaway. But she walked out of the woods near Fraser a couple of days ago, fine as could be. She said there was a guy with a dog, and they’d hurt her. Bad. That’s all she knew. Said she was blindfolded and tied up.”

Just like me,
Sean thought, nodding.
Just like the nightmares.

Todd swallowed a mouthful of pizza. “The other kid coming out of Fraser was a seven-year-old boy. Same story. Man, dog, the dark. A lot of pain. We found his folks, though. They’re supposed to fly in from Seattle today. So that’s something. Won’t they be surprised he’s still seven instead of almost thirty?”

“And the girl?” Sean asked around a bite of cold sausage pizza. “You find her family?”

“No father, and her mother committed suicide a year or so after the girl disappeared. Poor woman knew her daughter’d been taken, but we didn’t believe her.”

Todd tossed his pizza back onto his plate. “Of course I wasn’t on the force then just a kid, but I feel guilty for how that poor woman was treated. Missing teenage girls were often considered runaways unless there was evidence suggesting otherwise. Still are, sometimes. Makes me wonder how many of them are actually kidnap victims or sold into human trafficking.”

He leaned back and belched. “It’s a goddamn mess out there and we’re all running our asses off. Feds are all over the place but don’t seem to care about missing kids or your spores, they’re too busy taking water samples. Fuckers. The cyberjunkies have decided the feds are covering their asses over a terrorist event, probably anthrax. Or mutant pesticides. Or some other ‘we’re all gonna die!’ thing. So that’s put a run on the hospitals.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Do you have any idea how hard it is to convince a doddering old woman that her pet kitty isn’t gonna die from drinking tap water?”

“Probably not easy.”

“Two words. Fucking. Impossible. And people
are
dying. There’s been a definite increase in deaths from terminal illnesses, especially for the elderly, but it’s been a hot, wet summer. It happens.”

Sean nodded, unsure. Mare’d lost several patients the past couple of weeks. More than usual, even for summer.

Undaunted, Todd continued with his rant. “But the media! God, they’re the worst pain in the ass, always getting in the way and using any little rumor to spin the story and stir up more panic. I am so sick of reporters.”

Tell me about it. At least mine have mostly faded away.
As Todd grumbled out a sigh and finished munching his piece of pizza, Sean pointed at the newspaper headline. “The kids from the nineties… Were they missing feet, too?”

“They only found two of them,” Todd said, taking a sip of pop. “The third and sixth victims. It never made the news, but, yeah. Their feet had been cut off and cauterized.”

“Not gnawed?” Sean asked, watching Todd’s eyes.

Todd stared intently at Sean’s face. “You remembering something after all these years?”

“No. It’s a nightmare I never really stopped having.”

Chapter Seventeen

“You’ve always had these nightmares?” Todd asked around a slurp of pop.

Sean hesitated, uncertain if Todd was asking as a friend or investigator, then he nodded. “I don’t have any memories of when I was missing, just the dreams.”

“So the dog gnaws off your feet?”

God, I hate that dog!
Sean stood and paced near the table. “No. He gnaws the stumps. The feet are already gone.”

“We haven’t released that detail,” Todd said, watching Sean. “The press knew about the missing feet, but not the tooth marks after being cut and cauterized. And the news only found out about the feet missing because of a leak.”

“It’s one of the spores killing these kids, isn’t it?” Sean asked, wincing at Todd.

“Nope,” Todd said, shaking his head. “The theory of spore involvement did come up since so many kids disappeared right after they returned, but, no, it’s not one of them.”

“You’re sure?” Sean asked, leaning over the table. “If it all started after they spored—“

“The earlier dates don’t match,” Todd said. “None of them died close to when the disappearances stopped in ninety-seven. Some before, and a few well after, but none near. And those who died after… Women? Children? Old men? They simply don’t fit the profile. At all.”

“But, the timing… There has to be a connection.”

“Not necessarily,” Todd said. “I’ve been in this job long enough to know that just because two events happen at the same time and geographic vicinity does not mean they have to be related. There’s an armed robbery at a convenience store and, while on that call, a gay kid gets beat up at a honky tonk bar the next block over. Same time, same area of town, totally unrelated events.”

“But, my dreams, they’ve gotten worse since the spores came.”

“Another coincidence.” Todd shrugged. “Maybe it’s just because they, like you, came back from something terrible and it jarred something loose?”

Sean acquiesced. Bailey had said the same thing and it made as much sense as anything, he supposed. Dreams weren’t real evidence, just replays of his own fears.

“They’re all having nightmares too, as far as we can tell. Sometimes hallucinations. Mostly replaying their deaths in their heads over and over again. The poor bastards.”

Sean nodded. “Horrific flashbacks are common in PTSD, awake and asleep. God knows my head’s been shrunk enough about it. Be sure to let the families know the kids sporing back after the Creeper are going to be a mess.”

Todd said, “The Boone County Creeper never really stopped. Yeah, eleven local kids disappeared twenty some years ago, but other kids have been found all around the country since then eviscerated and missing their feet. We’re pretty sure whoever was doing it left the area in ninety-seven. Maybe he traveled for a job that expanded his hunting grounds, maybe he moved around a lot, but, for some reason, he’s back now because something changed. It’s no longer an occasional snatch, it’s become a compulsion.”

“Okay, so it’s not a spore,” Sean said, sitting again. “Do you guys have any idea why he’s back or why it’s now a compulsion?”

“Yeah, we have a theory,” Todd said as he tossed his pizza crust onto his plate. “The cops guessed the creeper to be in his thirties back then—which fits with what the kids who came back from the woods told us—so now he’d be in his fifties. His parents would be in their seventies, maybe eighties. Coming home to take care of mommy or daddy while they’re sick and dying, or recently dead and dealing with their estate, would upset anyone’s psychological applecart. Only our creeper’s already short a wheel and axle so he keeps grabbing kids to cope.”

Todd paused, then stood to gather up their mess. “There are a lot of fifty-year-old men with dying relatives. Unless we get a good lead, it’s going to be a bitch to narrow down the suspect pool. So far, we have nothing but dead kids and dog spit.”

Sean returned home around five. He ducked past the various groups in front of his house, but was blocked by a reporter.
Not now, not after today,
he thought. “Please move,” he said, but the reporter just pressed her microphone closer.

Dammit, I’m done with this shit.

Before she could begin her endless repetitive questions about his crackpot theories, Sean pushed past her to stand on his stoop and address the madness. “Listen up, everyone!” he called out as the camera’s red light flicked on and the reporter held out her microphone. “It’s time for a paradigm shift, all right? Yes, some people came back from the dead. They did. I don’t know why, and I sure don’t know why they picked my house to come back to, but they’re here and we all have to figure out how to help them.”

“Help them?” a woman with a
Burn the Filth
sign screeched. “We need to burn the sin outta them before they corrupt our children!” Her companions cheered and shook their signs.

Sean stared at them. “You’d say that to parents who lost their child in an accident and feel blessed to get them back, or a man who’s thankful to hold his beloved wife again?”

“The abominations must burn!”

He stepped down from the porch. “Seriously? You’re calling to murder someone, burn them alive, simply because of your misplaced fear?”

“The dead rising is a sign of the end, of the degradation of America,” the woman spat. “I’m trying to save the world, save our children, while you want to watch it burn!”

“Funny, I’m not calling to burn anything, let alone innocent people,” Sean said. “You are. And, need I remind you, your precious Christ rose from the dead. You want to burn him, too? That makes you a murderous hypocrite, doesn’t it?”

The woman pulled back, but Sean turned away before she could speak and faced the group carrying a banner demanding the spores use their magic to lead them to power and riches. “And you! Wanting to turn regular people into something to worship and exploit for your own gain? You should be ashamed.”

Sean stood in the middle of his own yard. “You all should take a few moments and think, really think about what you’re demanding of these people. That’s right, people. Living, breathing, human beings, no different from any of us.”

He turned and pointed at one of the Jesus ladies. “You,” he said as the woman he pointed at flinched. “Has anyone you loved ever died? Wouldn’t you give anything to have them back, even for just one day? Just one chance to see them again? Some folks have had their prayers granted, yet you’ve stood on my sidewalk for more than a week deeming it a sin you yourself have surely desired. How dare you, a sinner no better than any of us here, presume to know the will of God?”

He turned again. “And you!” he said, pointing at a college-aged zombiephile covered in fake wounds and blood, “You think it’s so cool to paint yourself up like a corpse and cheer about eating someone’s brains even though right now, this very moment, there are children missing from right here in Boone County. Kids who will quite likely be tortured and killed while you stand in my front yard cheering death and mayhem. What if your little brother was missing and a bunch of self-centered assholes were celebrating death, huh? Have some compassion and pull your head out of your ass. This isn’t a game, it’s people’s lives!

“Every last one of you, if you can’t stand with me and demand these folks get their rights and lives back like they deserve, then you can get the fuck off my property right goddamn now. They’re people. Just people. If you can’t accept that, then fuck off. I’m done dealing with you arrogant assholes.”

Two groups, the original zombie hunters and mommies carrying signs demanding to
Let the Missing Kids Spore!
clapped. Everyone else glared and muttered amongst themselves.

“Write down their license plate numbers,” Sean said to the zombie hunters, loud enough for everyone else to hear. “Anyone with a nasty sign who’s still on my property in five minutes is getting sued for trespassing, harassment, property damage, and whatever else my lawyer can come up with. I’m thinking big cash plus jail time.”

“You got it, boss,” the bearded zombie hunter with the rifle said, nodding eagerly.

“I’m not anyone’s boss,” Sean sighed. “I’m just done being pushed around by fear mongers and idiots.” He turned then to the mommies and their desperate plea to save the kids. “Any of you know the missing kids?”

A woman with her red hair pulled back into a ponytail nodded, her eyes bright and damp. “Yes, a little girl in my son’s third grade class disappeared two days ago. Such a sweet, peppy kid. She doesn’t deserve this.”

“No one does.” Sean grasped her hand and looked into her terrified eyes. “This is going to be hard, but, if the worst happens, you tell her parents she can come back. Tell them don’t cremate her, and to bury her as close to water as possible. She’ll come back. They all will, God willing. Can you do that?”

The woman nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “Yes, I can tell them. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Sean nodded and, when he turned toward the house, the reporter watched, still recording.

“And you,” he said, striding directly toward the camera. “There is no reason these people should be persecuted. They’ve suffered enough. So quit promoting the hate and let them resume their lives. All of you viewers out there know this: They’re
people
. Human beings. Start treating them like it. Help them. Reunite them with their families. Offer housing. Maybe a job. Clothing. Teach them how to use cell phones or the internet or ATM cards so they can rejoin modern society. They have nothing but memories and we can’t stand aside…”

He took a breath and let it out. “If you can’t find compassion for them, if you can’t bring yourself to do more than blindly hate, blindly fear, then keep it to yourself. Some of us are actually trying to do the right thing.”

Mindy yawned as she followed Mare into the house. Camille had ridden their asses until every crumb, smear, and speck of salt had been scrubbed, sanitized, or put away. Which was fine—she, too, was a firm believer in a sparkling kitchen—but surely there was a better way to manage the work and mess than screaming. It only made everyone jittery and prone to more mistakes.

Maybe she likes to see us upset,
Mindy thought, giving Paul a polite but disinterested nod as she trudged through the living room. He was flicking back and forth between two old basketball games on ESPN. Again.

Mare went into Sean’s studio but Mindy continued on to her room. After gathering her comfy clothes, she headed to the shower to get the stink of cafeteria cooking out of her skin and hair. Paul had left his fart-streaked underwear and filthy jeans on the floor.
Eeyuck. Always leaving his nasty crap lying around for me to trip over.
Mindy grimaced and kicked the clothes aside.
Rotten lazy puke.

She showered quickly in case Mare also wanted to scrub her job away, then dressed but damp, she left the bathroom and walked across the hall to Sean’s studio.

He was frowning at a printed piece of paper and looked from it, to the pencil drawing taped to his board, then back to the paper again. He did not appear to be pleased.

“Can I use the computer?” she asked, picking up her cat, who’d been begging for attention. “For the blog?”

“Yep,” he replied without glancing at her. “Just going to re-do this two-page spread’s new layout sketch then get to bed. Black Pawn wanted new layouts for five spreads. I’m exhausted. It’s been a
long
day.”

“I hear ya,” Mindy said as she woke the Mac. A click on her bookmark sent her to the blog and, kitty dozing on her lap, she began a new entry, talking about the fun and excitement of being a cash worker in a kitchen. She wrote about cupcakes and ganache and working for a boss who cared more for conflict than efficiency. She proofread the entry and uploaded it, then sorted through comments awaiting approval from her earlier posts. More followers, more questions she tried to answer, more encouragement, more jerks telling her she was a lying sack of shit. Same as usual.

Just gonna delete those creeps.
She paused, hand trembling over a comment from
HiFiJH
.

Oh shit. Jeff.
She swallowed the bad taste in the back of her mouth and clicked view.

I don’t know who you are or what stunt you’re trying to pull, but it won’t work. Break into my dead wife’s online accounts and steal her identity? That’s bad enough, but then you decided to slander me? Oh, buddy, you’re messing with the wrong guy. Cease and desist or I’ll sue your ass for every penny you’ll ever make. This will be your only warning.

“Jerk,” Mindy mumbled. “Is there a camera on this thing?” she asked Sean. “Like for video chatting? I kinda need a picture of myself.”

“Yeah, there’s one at the top of the screen, but I usually have it turned off. You might try PhotoBooth? I think it takes pics. Or iChat.”

“Thanks,” Mindy said as she searched for the app. A few moments and one mouse click later, she had taken a craptastic photo of herself. Undaunted, she turned her head for better lighting, sat a little straighter, and tried again.
Much better.

She returned to her blog and sent HiFiJH a private message, cc’d to her own email at an account Jeff had never heard of as well as her brand new lawyer, courtesy of Sean’s cop friend.

Jeff! Darling! The word you’re looking for is libel—check a dictionary if you doubt me—and it’s only libel if it isn’t true. So sorry your petty threats are meaningless. By the way, it is me. See? Took this pic just now, special just for you.

Go fuck yourself.

Minders

She attached the picture, complete with her chipper smile and damp hair, and hit send. Then she laughed. It was great to be alive again.