The Lost Causes of Bleak Creek(75)

“Okay, baby, okay,” Whitewood said. “I just…I don’t know if I can do this alone.”

“Then get help!” Ruby shrieked. “Do whatever you have to do!”

“Calm down, Ruby!” Whitewood said.

The black shadow presence of the Keeper enveloped Ruby, the dark cloud seeping through her nose and mouth. Her face grew angular, demented.

“The Keeper is growing impatient!” she said, the voice a mix of Ruby and the grating buzz of the Keeper.

Whitewood felt like he was going to freeze.

The freakish version of his daughter shot toward him, her face inches from his, the inky residue of the Keeper leaking from her obsidian eyes.

“He thirsts for those who will not follow!” she/it screamed.

Whitewood cowered. “I need time,” he said sheepishly.

“How much time do you require!” it yelled.

Whitewood hadn’t expected a negotiation.

“I don’t know…” Whitewood said. “I’ll have to come up with a cover story for any child the Keeper accepts. Explain to the town what happened to ’em. I’m no good to you if I’m locked away.”

“How much time!”

“Uh, ten years?” Whitewood said reflexively, guessing his suggestion would be met with more screaming. Or worse.

Suddenly, the black cloud enveloping Ruby receded into the distance, his daughter’s face her own once again.

“The Keeper says you have ten years,” she said.

Whitewood felt sudden relief, but it was quickly followed by a sinking weight of dread, realizing what the coming years would look like.

“Okay, Ruby. I can do that. I will do that. For you.”

“Thank you, Daddy. I love you.”

“I love you, too, baby girl.”



* * *



—

WHITEWOOD NERVOUSLY TAPPED his gloved fingers on his desk and looked at the calendar: September 1992.

It had taken him close to a decade to find four acceptable individuals for the Keeper. He’d done unspeakable things—and gotten others to do even worse by convincing them that it was all for the good of Bleak Creek, and the world—just so he could be reunited with his beloved Ruby.

He had just over a week to find three more kids. Even for a man who had successfully made himself the prophet of a bogus cult, that seemed impossible.

But there was hope. Leif Nelson had practically offered himself up on a silver platter earlier tonight. He had a feeling that meant Rex McClendon would soon find his way to the school as well. And he still had people on the lookout for the one who had escaped, not to mention the new crop of students he was just beginning to break.

Three more.

It could happen.

It would have to happen.

After all, he’d come this far.





21


LEIF WAS PRETTY sure the sour-faced lady at the front of the classroom was looking at him. He was also fairly certain she’d gotten some bad information, because she had just called him something that sounded nothing like Leif or Nelson.

“Yes, you, Candidatus,” she said.

“Oh,” Leif said. “That’s, uh, not me.”

The helper smiled, which was actually worse than when she didn’t. “How sad you don’t know your own name.”

The past twelve hours had been—by a long shot—the most difficult of his life.

After confronting some kind of invisible monster in the spring, he’d been chased down by an all-too-visible monster, who’d caught him and then somehow convinced his mother that he needed to be sent here, to this terrible place.

“For your information,” the helper continued, “Candidatus is Latin for ‘candidate.’ Because you, just like each and every student in this room, are a candidate for reform. If you decide to…” She tapped the large sign on the wall that said FOLLOW. “Do you understand, Candidatus?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Leif said.

“Yes, Helper!” she said. “You call me Helper.”

Leif thought, as far as titles of respect went, ma’am carried more dignity than helper, which was a designation he remembered coveting back in kindergarten. But he wasn’t going to say that. “Okay, Helper.”

She narrowed her eyes in disgust. “You’re just like her,” the woman said with a hushed intensity before redirecting her attention to the whole class. “Candidati, you should know that not only was Candidatus caught by Headmaster trespassing on school grounds in the middle of the night, but he also aided and abetted that student—may she rest in peace—who injured Headmaster’s hands.” Everyone quietly freaked out, though it seemed more like a performance than a genuine response. “He is a complete disgrace. Now please open your Whitewood Learning Guides to page four hundred and sixteen.”

In spite of everything Leif knew about the Whitewood School and its headmaster, he couldn’t help but feel ashamed. He was accustomed to being singled out in class, but that was because he usually had the answer the teacher was after. Now, he felt completely in over his head. Rex should be here instead. He’d know what to do. Probably come up with some completely outlandish plan that would somehow totally work out.

But there was an even better question than What would Rex do?