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Luther rolled his head toward Conor.
“You seen ’em, right?” Conor patted his lips with his fingertips in quick, rhythmic bursts until it felt safe to keep talking. “You seen them things in the fog?”
Luther’s eyes were fixed on Co
nor’s, but Conor couldn’t be sure Luther was really seeing him. But then he said, “The d-door, d-d-door is open. Open. Open your eyes, eye, the Eye… d-draws them. D-draw them.”
“Who are they?”
Luther didn’t answer.
“Say, why’d you try to shoot da Sweetheart Seer?” Conor asked.
“They n-never should have d-done it.” Luther shut his eyes tight. He whispered in his broken voice, “We are the one, four, four. We are the one, four, four. We are…”
“Good evening, Terrence, Joseph,” Dr. Simpson greeted the attendants at the desk, and Conor whipped his attention back to his drawings. Why was Dr. Simpson here so late? “Mind if I have a word with one of your patients?”
“Of course, Dr. Simpson.”
Dr. Simpson made a slow turn of the room. His coat collar was turned up sharply against the threat of rain and wind outside. “Evening, gentlemen.”
From the corner of his eye, Conor could see Dr. Simpson staring at Luther, the doc’s mouth turned down at the corners in disapproval. Dr. Simpson left Luther’s side and stood next to Conor. “And how are you this evening, Conor?”
“Good.” Conor kept his pencil scratching on the paper.
Dr. Simpson sat across from him at the table. He smiled. It was not a warm smile. He wore spectacles that magnified his pupils like an insect’s. Conor began to sweat. He wanted to count. Counting was safety. But he was too frightened to do it in front of Dr. Simpson. What if the doc took him away and he came back like Frances?
“Now, Conor, I’d like to ask you some questions. Would that be all right?”
Conor gave a terse nod.
“It’s about what happened with Mr. Flanagan and Miss Cleary. What Mr. Roland did to them. I understand you saw the whole thing.” Dr. Simpson waited. He was good at that. Waiting. Conor didn’t give him anything, though, so he said, “Is that true?”
“Wadn’t Mr. Roland done that,” Conor mumbled.
“Who was it, then?”
Conor clammed up.
“Now, now, Conor. We all know that Mr. Roland did it. Can you tell me what you saw?” Dr. Simpson barely blinked his big eyes.
Conor wanted to count so badly he thought he could explode from the need. Under the table, he moved his fingers in the same rhythmic rotation, pinkie to thumb. “It was him but not him. Somethin’ got inside ’im.”
“I don’t understand.”
Conor’s voice was soft as dandelion fluff. “Ghosts. They can get inside ya. Make ya do things. That’s why I hafta count. To keep ’em out.”
“Do you see these ghosts often?”
The lady’s voice flitted through Conor’s head, very faint: Don’t tell him anything. He will hurt you if you do. Conor’s eyes widened.
Dr. Simpson’s thin lips turned down again. “Are the ghosts speaking to you now, Conor?”
Keep still, the lady commanded.
Conor’s breathing shallowed. He shook his head slowly. Under the table, his fingers worked quickly through their rotations.
“All right. Just one more question,” Dr. Simpson said, and leaned in so that Conor felt as if the doc’s eyes were everywhere, inescapable, like the voices in his head. “Have you ever seen a man with a tall hat and a feathered coat? Does he ever speak to you, Conor?”
