And cometh from afar.
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
—William Wordsworth, “My Heart Leaps Up”
This day that would change Catherine Powers’s life began several hundred miles to the south. At a McDonald’s in Quantico, Virginia, he waited for hamburger and fries. He stood, eyes focused out the window, feeling steam rise from his coffee.
Outside, a storm was brewing in the late afternoon. Clouds, balled and tight and angry, knitted the sky. The wind picked up now, bending maples, oak leaves flying. The air had that magnetic quality he could not quite describe, only knew he could feel it.
The food came. He neither smiled nor frowned at the pimpled teenager but walked with his tray to a corner table and sat quietly. Opening the bun, he squeezed mustard out of a plastic packet and placed the bun back on top. It was a mechanical action, for his mind was elsewhere.
Nostalgia came quickly and left him as he watched the children across the street. He scrutinized them at recess, laughing at their silly games, remembering himself years back doing the same gyrations on the monkey bars. Perhaps he was feeling misty-eyed because he knew too much, or too little. Whatever it was, the feeling soon departed.
Listening to the painfully boring background music, he knew himself a veteran of this sport. There was no mystery to his success—a vast amount of patience, careful planning, thinking of every eventuality. He would not be disappointed this time, as he had not been in the past.
Normally he would be agitated by now. But this week, long self-imposed hibernation was healthy for him, if he got what he wanted.
In any case, he wouldn’t have to linger much longer. For a week he had been poised in the shadows, waiting to benefit from his current challenge. Gentlemanly, he had been lying low, for many reasons. Some personal, some not. It was the first time he would take a child, the first time he would become the demon that had haunted his own childhood. A predator of children.
But it had to be done.
It was necessary to bring her to him.
Besides, he equated slowness with wisdom. His methodical plotting had never failed him before.
He sipped his coffee through steam, watching the one called Joey.
“Are you finished with that?” A red-haired teenager was standing over him, her hand poised on his plastic tray, waiting to whisk it away.
He turned to her, snatched French fries off the tray. “Yes, I am.”
Sitting on this hard bench seat, he hunched his shoulders and watched the schoolyard. Kids moving like leaves in the wind.
Joey had a sort of rounded body, with a big head, large pale eyes.
He stared at the trees, eyes open, slipping a now-cold French fry into his lips, watching.
In his mind, he was holding the boy, not hurting him, just holding him. He smiled. When he touched the boy, his flesh was warm, smooth. He could sense the child on his fingertips, even here. Could smell his scent.
He was good at imagining. Imagining had gotten him through the hard times in his life. Locked up, he had been deprived of anything that would stimulate his mind: books, magazines, movies. They thought they were punishing him. In fact, they were making him stronger. He turned in on himself, learning that the mind is man’s most powerful tool. In his mind, he painted fantasies.
One of them went something like what he was living right now.
Joey Powers was swinging back and forth on a Jungle Gym swing set, his hair tousled by the wind. Wearing blue jeans and a bright yellow windbreaker, the boy was thirty feet away; the only thing separating them was glass and a chain-link fence that towered over the child’s head.
Suddenly Joey stopped swinging. There was stillness, even in the wind, and a stare.
The boy could feel his eye contact.
Averting his eyes, he stared at the gray, angry sky, the band of low clouds quickly filling the horizon. Casually, he ate another French fry. He looked away to safeguard himself.
The boy must not know he was coming.
Joey Powers sat on the swing, his small fingers wrapped tight around the cold chains that supported him, feeling the wind picking up. At the playground’s corner, he watched tall elms bow. The sandbox appeared a tornado of sand. Beyond it, beyond the fence, a lone man sat at an orange and brown plastic bench and table, next to the glass at McDonald’s. He’d been there for an hour, slowly eating something.
Joey wanted to tell the man to quit watching him.
As Joey watched the man, he could see the man quickly get up from the table, throwing his fries away. The man blasted out the front door, head down, hands shoved in his pants. No jacket on.
Something about the way the man moved told Joey something was wrong. He kept his eyes on the man. Watched as he turned around, their eyes meeting. Joey thought, only for a second, he might know him. The hunch to his shoulders, the head, eyes, long limbs, seemed familiar. Like one of Dad’s friends. At this distance, he couldn’t be sure. Couldn’t get a good look at the face from this far away.
Suddenly a dust cloud picked up right in front of Joey, blinding his eyes. Squinting them closed, he felt the dirt burn. Tears flowed as he rubbed his eyes.
When he opened them, looked up, the man was gone.
The clouds were coming in.
A heavy, steady rain started to fall.
Joey stepped inside his first grade classroom, moved to the window that faced the McDonald’s.
There was nothing there.
He stepped away from the window and took his seat. The room was full of color. Walls painted bright primary colors: cherry red, bright yellow, cobalt blue, Kelly green. Mrs. Miner had taken special care to place one of each of the children’s artwork across a banner that stretched above the blackboard. Small wooden desks, even smaller plastic chairs. An area for playtime indoors.
It was bold and bright.
Joey loved it very much, even with the sky blackening outside.
He couldn’t help it.
Wouldn’t change anything about it even if he could.
Except the man.
Mrs. Miner, a thin, tall, funny woman, rallied the children together for nap time. She cut the lights in the room to half wattage. Each child lay out on their mats, their limbs falling into slumber in minutes.
All except Joey.
Joey could hear the rising and falling of her breath in his direction.
“Mrs. Miner,” he whispered to avoid waking the others.
At the head of the room, she got up and started toward him. He could hear her shoes on the floor.
She knelt beside him on one knee. The fuzzy cardigan she wore made him feel safer. Just having her near, he felt safer.
“What is it, Joey?”
“I can’t sleep.”
“Well, that’s plain to see. Is there something bothering you, something you’d like to talk about?”
His lisp came and went, so she hardly noticed it anymore.
“What is it, hon?”
Joey looked out the window, his eyes faraway. “When I was outside, there was a man. Watching me.”
“Outside when?”
“Just now, today.”
“A man?” There was disbelief in her voice. At six, children had vivid imaginations, she was used to that. They could see imaginary friends, playmates, dogs, cats. One little girl in the class carried her imaginary friend everywhere, named her Samantha.
“Yessth.”
She knelt on both knees, tucking her feet under her. “And where did you see this man?”
Joey stared out the window facing McDonald’s. “He was out there. He was staring at me.”
She smoothed his hair, her voice cooing to him. “Now, now, Joey. There’s nothing to worry about. It’s just the rain on the ceiling, a little pitter-patter. Nothing to be scared of, really.”
There was no reproach in her voice. After all, she was used to the children being scared every once in a while. Some were naturally more sensitive than others. Joey was one of the sensitive ones, she knew.
She petted his hair and sang a lullaby.
It still took him ten minutes to fall asleep.
Mark picked Joey up right on schedule, three-thirty. He was one of a growing number of dads who picked up their children at The Oaktree School.
“How’s it going, tiger?”
Joey ran to his father’s arms as if they hadn’t seen each other in weeks. “Dad!” He held up a picture of a racecar, his favorite subject, the colors not perfectly in the lines but pretty close. “Look what I did.”
“That’s great. Your coloring is getting better than mine.”
Joey grinned like a Cheshire cat. Mark tousled his hair.
The boy moved to a large windowpane and stared out at the rain.
“Can I have a word with you?” Mrs. Miner’s face was neither cheerful nor worried. She pulled him aside.
Mark grew worried. “What is it?”
She was careful in her choice of words, occasionally smiling encouragement at the other children as they left with their parents. Her voice had some intensity. To a woman who lived her life for these children, her look troubled Mark tremendously.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t mean to alarm you. Joey was watched today by a man. We don’t know who he was. By the time security investigated, he was gone.” “A man. What man?” “We don’t know who he is, or was. Just that he sat there watching Joey for some time.”
“Sat where?”
“At the McDonald’s across the way. It upset Joey. I checked it out with some of the other kids, and they confirmed his story.” She knitted her brow. “You didn’t send anyone, did you, to watch him?”
“No one. What did the guy look like?”
“No one at the McDonald’s remembers. Just keep an eye on Joey tonight, will you?” There was genuine concern in her voice. Joey was one of her brightest students.
“I will. And thank you.” Mark looked across the room to where Joey was standing. “Come on, sport, it’s time to go.”
Outside, the storm had strengthened, the rain coming like bullets from an ever darkening sky. It looked more like night than day.
Mark thought of leaving Joey in the sheltered alcove and running to get the truck, as he watched parents with death grips on their children’s arms running for shelter. Given the events of the day, he thought better of it. It was better to be wet than…Mark would not think of it. Besides, Joey was a resilient kid. A little rain wouldn’t hurt him any.
People were speeding through the parking lot as if the rain put the fear of God in them.
“Come here, buddy.” Mark hoisted Joey’s windbreaker-clad body into his arms.
“Let’s go!” Joey said, enjoying the free ride. He held on tight to his father’s neck. Mark sloshed through puddles, feeling the cold permeate his leather loafers, socks, toes.
Joey was jovial, enjoying the adventure. “Yahoooo, Daddy. It’s like we’re sailors at sea. We’re caught in a shipwreck. Man overboard!” His small frame pumped up and down in Mark’s arms as if he were really caught in the thick of the action.
“Shiver me timbers, matey. Is that our car I spy? Or could it be a Spanish galleon, full of gold doubloons?”
Joey was breathing hard through the water washing against his face. “It’s a ghost ship! Let’s go aboard.” He laughed.
Mark saluted with one hand, the other fumbling with the alarm and keyless entry. The Chevy Yukon chirped, then the doors automatically unlocked with a pop so they could slide into safety. Mark secured the boy in the back passenger booster seat, then tossed Joey’s backpack in the backseat. Hurrying, he slammed the truck door and shook as if he were a wet dog trying to get his fur dry. Joey laughed again. Leaving the school, Mark drove past a man in a raincoat standing on the sidewalk. He was hatless, his hair drenched, obscuring his features. Head bowed, making them even harder to read.
The man glared at them.
Joey busily scribbled in his soaked coloring book, not paying attention.
Mark motored cautiously through what had now become drizzle to the east side of town. Cape Cod-style homes stood on perfectly manicured lawns, each one looking like a putting green, never used. Towering maples gave up leaves to the sluice of water, their late summer color already yielding to autumn’s yellow hue. Car lights ahead appeared as streaks of gold and white on a rain-smeared windshield.
“I’m not afraid of the rain, Dad.”
“I know. Neither am I.” Mark smiled at the boy sideways, keeping his eyes on the winding road. He thought of asking Joey about the man but decided otherwise. It would do no good to bring up the memories, only trigger nightmares.
Instead, he’d just let it go. For now.
They got home and heard Clifford barking in the garage. As the automatic garage door opened, Joey scrambled out of the truck to the dog. Clifford, a fawn-colored golden retriever, licked the boy twice in the face and headed back to the shelter of the garage.
Joey did too. He was inside before Mark pulled in, calling for Charlie, his lizard.
Mark gathered all the wet things from the backseat, his briefcase and laptop, Joey’s backpack and colored pictures, a signed Mike Trout “Kid Fish” Junior baseball Mark had ordered on the Internet. Joey’s favorite baseball player. Mark hadn’t said anything about it. It was going to be a surprise.
Going inside, he hit the automatic garage door, listened to the mechanism whir, watched the door close tight. It was a comforting feeling. At least here, they were safe.
He waited. His rented black Cadillac SUV’s engine pinged and knocked. Coffee was cold now. Rolling down the window, he poured the last of it out into the steady rain, cursing as his sleeve and shoulder got drenched. Stretching his muscles as best he could, he put binoculars to his eyes and followed the shiny wet sidewalk up to the west.
He’d been sitting about five hundred feet from the house for five minutes, with the heater going, blowing into cupped hands, trying to get some circulation going. Already he missed California.
But he knew this would be worth it.
From the looks of it, the house was modest for what this family made. A Cape Cod-style clapboard with three dormer windows on the top story. Early Americana influence. An American flag flapped in the wind outside what appeared to be the kitchen window, a dim light illuminating that part of the house.
Neatly trimmed pots stood outside the front door. The Cape Cod was set back about a hundred yards from the road, encased in an ivy-covered red brick wall crowned in brass lantern peaks. The four-foot wall reminded him of an undulating snake. Its height didn’t really matter. No fence or security system would protect this family today.
He watched a new Chevy Yukon pull left into the driveway, watched it stop. The little boy got out, lit up for a moment in the headlights. A dog came running out, licked him, and then made a smart move. Headed for the garage.
He watched as the portico light turned on.
A cypress tree caught the wind.
He waited.
A minute later, a figure in the kitchen’s bay window: a man dressed in a white business shirt, his tie already pulled loose, half off, dangling like a dead serpent. He looked of average build, hair the color of sand. He watched the man lower the blinds in the house’s bay windows till only slats of light emanated into the wetness.
He put the binoculars down, settled back, and slept.
He had time. At only five-thirty, there was plenty of time.