Summoning the Night (Arcadia Bell #2)(47)

“Look, I’ll come clean. We aren’t really writing a historical book about La Sirena’s schools,” I said. “Surely you’ve heard there are now three kids missing.”

She stiffened. Water dripped from the nozzle of the hose she held in one hand.

“More children might be taken,” Lon said. “This is my kid here, and I don’t want him to be the next victim. The Snatcher took seven kids in the 1980s. We think you know something about it.”

“Why . . .” Her voice cracked. “Why would I know something about that?” Wisps of dyed red hair clung to the sweat on her forehead. She wiped the side of her face on her shoulder.

Lon nudged Jupe. I glanced around, ensuring that we were still alone, then looked at Jupe. Just like we rehearsed. Now or never, kid. You’re on. He took a deep breath, then balled up his hands into fists.

“Cindy,” he commanded with confidence over the fish counter, like he did this for a living. His eyes were slitted, and Dr. Spendlove was right: they were flicking back and forth. “You trust us. You want to tell us everything you remember about the Snatcher. You’re tired of keeping secrets and you want to be helpful. You aren’t afraid anymore.”

Cindy looked momentarily confused, just like the amusement park ride operator. Her face knotted up as if she might burst into tears. Then her shoulders sagged. She set the hose down and peeled off long black rubber gloves. “I don’t know if what I remember will help,” she said timidly. “I can take a short break, but let’s talk outside.”

We followed her down a tiled hallway past the swinging warehouse doors to a locked rear entrance. She entered a four-digit code and waited for the door to beep. It opened onto a deserted loading dock at the side of the parking deck. After a few steps, we huddled together under a covered walkway, next to an ashtray and a bench with peeling paint.

“So, what do you want to know?” she said, keeping her eyes on the cement as she fumbled around inside her Starry Market apron pocket for her cigarette case.

“Did the Snatcher take you?” I asked.

She took out a cigarette and paused, as if her brain was fighting Jupe’s persuasion. At length, she finally said, “Not exactly. I got away.”

I glanced at Lon. Bingo.

Cindy leaned against the bench. “I was fifteen at the time. My best friend had dropped me off at home. It was Friday, the day before Halloween. It wasn’t too late, maybe nine or ten, but I knew my parents were asleep. I hung around outside on our front porch to sneak a cigarette. Next thing I knew, someone was hauling me up into the air and over the railing. He was hiding in the bushes, I guess. Yanked me from behind.”

Jupe made a noise beside me. I touched his hand with the back of mine and he immediately held it.

“I tried to scream,” she said, “but he got a hand over my mouth before I could. Kicked out my feet, dropped me to the ground, and held me down in the grass. For a second, I thought he was going to rape me or something. It didn’t even cross my mind that it was the Snatcher.”

“What made you realize it?” I asked quietly, squeezing Jupe’s hand.

She shuffled one foot in front of her, tracing some invisible pattern on the walkway. “He whispered something to me. He said, ‘Cindy Brolin, number seven.’ I thought I was going to die of fright right then. Everyone was talking about the Snatcher those days. La Sirena was terrified. Every day we waited to hear if someone else had been taken. I knew the boy that got taken before me. Knew he was number six . . .” Her voice trailed off as she took a drag and her cigarette ashed; she flicked the filter roughly.

“What happened then?” Lon prompted.

“He mumbled something about needing a taste of me to be sure that I was ‘viable.’ Then he bit me.”

“Bit you?”

Cindy nodded. “Yeah. Right on the arm.” She pushed up the blue sleeve of her shirt, revealing a faded, crescent-shaped scar above her left elbow. “Had to have ten stitches. My parents told the doctor who sewed me up at the emergency room that it was a dog bite.” She laughed nervously, then pushed her sleeve down. “I’ve been having nightmares about that bite ever since you both showed up at my apartment and told me that kids were going missing again.”

“Sorry,” I said.

She shook her head and looked away. “Anyway, he took the chunk out of my arm, then said something in another language.”

“Any idea which language?” Lon asked.

“It was crazy-sounding. Kinda like—”

“Like what?”

“This is going to sound stupid, but it was almost like some alien sort of language from a Star Trek movie or something. Silly, right?”

Odd, but not silly. Lon was good with languages. He quizzed her, asking if what she’d heard sounded like Latin, speaking a few words in Latin for her to compare with her memory. Definitely not, she said. He tried a little Greek. Not that either, she said. Nor Egyptian, nor Enochian. That ruled out most of the basic spells. Dare was convinced that Bishop had been trying to re-create the transmutation initiation ritual, that the research notes were in the same journal with the list of the original missing kids. Notes in Latin. But if it wasn’t Bishop who was taking the kids, then maybe the notes they found in Bishop’s house were for the real Snatcher. Maybe he was forcing Bishop into helping him. Maybe he was another disgruntled Hellfire member who wanted the same power that the officers had. He could’ve turned on Bishop if the transmutation spell didn’t work out. . . .