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“See, why you gotta say that? Three minutes—do you know how hard that is? How much skill that takes? Look at these hands. These are gifted hands. I should insure ’em.”
“Whaddaya wanna see Luther for?” The question came from a slight, dark-haired boy drawing feverishly at a corner table. It was hard to know his true age. The freckles made him seem young, but his eyes were wary, and much, much older than they should be.
“Luther is an old friend of mine,” Evie said.
“You’re lying.”
Evie started to protest, but something about this fragile-looking boy made her want to tell the truth. “Yes. I’m lying. He tried to shoot me.”
“You’re the Sweetheart Seer,” the boy said. “I recognize your voice. From the radio.”
“Seems you’ve got fans everywhere, Sheba,” Woodhouse said.
The boy seemed very nervous to her. Like someone whose mind wouldn’t allow him to rest. Sam tugged gently on Evie’s arm. “Come on, doll—we gotta ankle before that guard wakes up.”
“You gotta leave before nightfall! That’s when they come. Wit’ the night and the fog.”
“Who?” Evie asked the nervous boy.
He flicked his gaze toward the window. “The Forgotten. They can get inside you. Make you do things. Awful things. They belong to—” His eyes were as large as a fish’s. “Just don’t be here when it’s dark,” he said, and ran back the way he’d come, disappearing down another hallway.
“Evie!” Sam pleaded.
“Not in this room,” Woody said, closing the door to one of the many rooms along the ward’s long hallway. “One minute gone.”
“Thanks. That’s a big help,” Sam said.
Evie peeked through the inset window of room number seven. There was a young man in a wheelchair. “Found him!” she whisper-shouted, and opened the door.
“Don’t… even… lock… the doors.” Woody scribbled quickly on his pad. “Sweetheart Seer put aside concerns for her own safety… gained entry to the cell of violent madman…”
“Luther? Luther Clayton?” Evie said softly into the dim room. It was very still and sparse: only a bed and a bedside table with an unopened Bible on top. Luther Clayton sat in his wheelchair, staring at the wall.
Evie drew closer. “Mr. Clayton?”
“Hold still. I want to get a picture. Evie, lean in, will ya?” Woody urged, taking a long-snouted accordion camera from his reporter’s bag.
“To the man who tried to kill her?” Sam said. “Nothing doing.”
“It’s okay, Sam,” Evie said. “Just make sure you get my good side, Woody.”
Evie moved closer to Luther. He smelled of old sweat. There were bruises on his neck, sores on his chapped lips. War and pain had aged him, but underneath, Luther was delicately handsome, with a face that seemed familiar, as if he might have been a bit actor in a cowboy picture. Evie was jealous of Memphis’s Diviner power; if she could, she would try to heal this man’s broken heart.
This close, she could feel his clothes wanting to whisper to her.
“Hurry,” she said to Woody.
The flash cut the gloom. “Got it,” Woody said.
Evie took a step back. “Do you remember me, Mr. Clayton?” she said softly. “I’m Evie O’Neill.”
He inclined his head toward her. His eyes were still distant.
“I want you to know that I forgive you for trying to shoot me. I only wish I understood why you did it.”
Luther blinked several times, as if trying to wake up from a dream. Evie kept talking: “You once took hold of my hand on the street. Do you remember? I put a dollar in your tin cup and you grabbed my hand. You were trying to tell me something back then. Something about following the Eye. I’m sorry I ran away then. I was frightened. Were you mad at me about that? Is that why you tried to shoot me?”
