Promise Not To Tell(41)

“Right. But there was nothing unusual about it. I’m holding the book in every picture in the Visions series. It’s part of the standard iconography that Hannah used.”

“You said your mother gave you that book?”

“Yes. It was designed to teach early math to a child. We weren’t allowed to go to school in town, remember? We were homeschooled by some of the women in the compound.”

“Do you still have it?”

“Of course. It’s the only thing I have of my mother’s. Why?”

“Do you mind if I take a look at it?”

“No. I’ll get it for you.”

Virginia disappeared down the hall to the guest bedroom that served as a library and home office. When she returned she carried a slim, handmade book bound with strands of frayed yarn.

“Hannah illustrated it for Mom,” Virginia said. “She used good-quality paper, so the pages have not deteriorated, but it’s still rather fragile.”

She set the book on the kitchen counter and opened it with great care. Cabot hit the start button on the coffeemaker and moved to stand beside Virginia. He was immediately fascinated by the illustrations. They leaped off the page in a riot of colors. Fanciful animals from a magical realm trotted, flew, hopped or paced through the story. Each carried a number or a mathematical sign. In the story that accompanied the pictures, the creatures tried to impress a little girl who didn’t like arithmetic with the wonders of the world of numbers.

“I loved to read but I didn’t like math,” Virginia said. Her voice broke a little. “So Mom came up with a story about a kid like me. Then Hannah illustrated it. The idea was to teach me some basic arithmetic.”

Cabot saw the glint of tears. “I’m sorry to dredge up sad memories.”

“I know, but it’s not like either of us has a choice, is it? This situation that we’re in is all about the past.”

“I think so, yes.”

She blinked away the tears. “It’s just that so much has been happening lately. I feel a little… disoriented, I guess.”

“You’re not the only one.”

Acting on impulse, he reached out and tugged her into his arms. She did not resist. Instead she collapsed against him and cried for what seemed like a very long time. He realized that her tears were welling up from some very deep, dark place. He knew that place. He had visited a very similar realm from time to time over the years, often at one thirty in the morning.

He didn’t realize that tears were leaking out of his own eyes until Virginia gently extracted herself from his arms, stepped back and gave him a watery smile.

“Sorry,” she said. “I haven’t lost it like that for quite a while.”

“Neither have I.” He grimaced, grabbed a paper napkin and wiped his eyes. “When I was a kid, Anson used to tell me that it was no big deal. He said it wasn’t like I was ever going to forget what happened at the compound, so I would have to deal with it. He told me that crying from time to time was probably a good way to keep the bad stuff under control.”

“Stuff?”

“Anson isn’t a trained psychologist. He didn’t have all the fancy words. But my brothers and I got the message. Sometimes it was okay to cry.”

“My grandmother sent me to a couple of therapists who did have the fancy words,” Virginia said. “I got the same message from them, but at the same time, Octavia was sending me another, conflicting message – don’t talk about the past because it’s just too painful.”

“So you stopped talking about it?”

“At home, yes. Later, when I went off to college and then out into the real world, I discovered no one else wants to talk about my past, either, or, if they do, it’s because of morbid curiosity. They looked at me differently after they found out about my time in the cult. I could see them wondering if I was seriously warped or maybe crazy. So I shut up.”

“My brothers and I figured out real fast that talking to outsiders about our past was not a good idea. But at least we had each other and Anson to talk to.”

“I didn’t have anyone to share my past with until Hannah Brewster showed up at the door of my gallery. We did talk a little, but by then Hannah was living in her own world. It was difficult to know what was real to her and what wasn’t. And she was so secretive. Downright paranoid.” Virginia glanced at the picture book of numbers. “She often asked about the book, though.”

“What did she say?”

“She was very concerned that I keep it safe. She said I might need it someday. But, honestly, I’ve looked at it hundreds of times over the years and I still don’t know what she meant. I can tell you that each of the creatures was named after one of the kids who were forced to sleep in the barn, but you have to look very closely at the designs to see that much.”

Cabot chose a page at random and concentrated on the exuberant, highly decorative designs on a hat worn by one of the fantastical creatures. At first he could not make sense of what he was looking at. Then he saw an H followed by the letter u.

“Hugh,” Cabot said. He looked up. “There was a Hugh with us in the barn that night. Hugh Lewis. He and his father were at the compound.”

“Are their names on that list that Anson keeps?”

“Yes,” Cabot said. “Max tracked them down a couple of years ago. They’re living in the Midwest now and doing reasonably well as far as we know. But Max said that neither of them wanted to talk about their time with Zane. Hugh is married with a couple children of his own. His father remarried. Their wives know about their time in Zane’s operation but they don’t want their friends and neighbors to find out.”