Chapter 24

The Homeopath and His Subject

It so happened, the following afternoon, that Adam was away at a football game; and for once, Burton decided not to join him. Heather saw the boy creeping around his garden, and she wondered whether she should confront him. His reputation around school suggested that he was dangerous. Were the rumors true? Had he poisoned a teacher’s dog? Was he poisoning Adam? Could he harm her?

As if in reply, her scar pulsed, reminding Heather that it would protect her. She touched it: it had healed into a thick, rubbery line. Though it had faded somewhat, it still showed the shape of the letter T without a doubt. Most of the school considered it an abbreviation for Traitor, but for Heather, it had a new meaning.

She would obey the scar.

She would seek out the Truth.

She would confront Burton.

As soon as she turned toward the back yard, her scar cooled as if to reward her for obeying its will.

Burton seemed to sense her presence before he heard her. “I thought you’d come,” he said without turning to see her approach.

“How?”

He turned around and touched his heart. “Something just told me so.”

Heather stared at him. He looked even more sinister than the last time she’d seen him. He had purple circles under his eyes, which now stared up at her, bloodshot. Though he had stood up to greet her, he still stooped over, as if his back had started to form a hunch. Heather wanted to end the conversation as soon as possible. In fact, the only thing compelling her to remain in Burton’s presence was her concern for Adam.

“What are you doing to Adam?” Heather asked.

“What makes you assume that I can do anything to Adam? And even if I were doing something to him, why should that concern you?” He spoke as if he knew more than he let on. “Is there something I need to know about Adam? Something you need to tell me?”

“I don’t know what you need to know.” Heather looked at a strange patch of wilted herbs in the garden. “I only hope you aren’t tormenting him with your herbs.”

Burton sat on the wooden bench with a groan. His joints creaked as if it were a great relief to sit. “And even if I were, what’s it to you?”

Heather’s scar burned with the implications of his question. Burton watched her, and there was something in his eyes Heather could not place. It was something like love—but not quite.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Burton asked.

“Get what?”

“You don’t understand.”

“Understand what? You’re not making sense.”

“Indeed, it started out as simply an interest in finding the identity of your informant.” He sighed and looked into the distance. “I wanted you to let me help break the story. I thought that it was the least you could do to thank me for all the rides I gave you this summer.”

Heather blushed. “I’m sorry. When I accepted rides from you, I thought you were just being nice. I didn’t know there were strings attached.”

Burton squinted at her. “And you must think that way, mustn’t you? You can’t possibly understand what it’s like to be frowned on by everyone. To have to wear my hair long to hide my appearance,” he said, brushing his hair over his ear. “To be passed over in favor of those far less intelligent and capable simply because of what I look like and my preference for solitude and study. And for you, it was just a ride to a babysitting job, wasn’t it?”

“What else would it have been?” Heather asked.

“It was the highlight of my day.” Burton cast his eyes downward. “I looked forward to spending those few minutes with you.” He dismissed it all with the wave of his hand. “But recently, in pursuing the identity of your informant, I realized that getting credit for breaking the story wasn’t the whole problem.” He turned back to Heather. “My problem was that since you broke the story and became a social outcast, I can no longer take you to Homecoming.”

Heather shook her head. “Burton, I never gave you false hopes. I told you I wasn’t going to the dance with you.”

“True, but in my heart there was still a chance. But now—now, you’re ruined. Taking you to Homecoming would probably get me kicked off the Observer’s sports section, and that’s all your informant’s fault. The one person whose association could possibly lower my social standing is you. And yet—” Here, he looked directly at Heather’s face. “And yet I can’t help that I still feel attracted to you. I’ve been poking around at school, and I’ve learned that you and Adam—you used to be quite the couple, over the summer. He must have come over when I was inside. You see, I don’t do well in the heat of the summer, and I stay indoors until the weather is a little chillier, more conducive to gardening. So I never saw the two of you together.”

“That was in a life before the scar.”

“Still,” Burton said. His soft voice turned angry, sharp, and raspy. “Now it all makes sense. Your heart belongs to him, and to answer your question: that’s what I want with him.” Burton stood, then, and stepped just inches from Heather’s face. “Is Adam your informant?”

Heather squinted and set her jaw firmly. “You’ll never find the identity of my source. Not from me. That’s a promise I can’t break.”

Burton placed his finger on her scar and traced the shape of the letter down her face. Whereas anyone else’s touch may have made her skin tingle, his made it burn with cold.

“Your scar will bring the truth out,” he said finally.

Heather glared at him. “Leave Adam alone.” Then she shoved away his hand and turned away towards home.

Though Burton had admitted nothing, Heather now knew that he was, indeed, befriending Adam just to torture him. She had to put a stop to it. Adam had no idea that Burton had such an obsessive crush on Heather. He didn’t even know that Burton had given her rides to her babysitting jobs over the summer. To Heather, Burton had been an afterthought, not even worth mentioning.

But not mentioning him to Adam had been an oversight she now regretted. How much of Adam’s sickly pallor had been caused by the fiend living next door? Burton needed counseling. He wasn’t fit for interacting with others! But lately, he and Adam had become favored by the principal. Burton’s positive articles had started bringing fame back to the football team, and Principal Elders loved him for it. It was doubtful Heather could ever find enough evidence to report Burton to an administrator without Principal Elders immediately dismissing the charge.

Especially if the charge came from Heather.

She had one choice. She had to solve the problem on her own.

The next day, Heather watched from her sunroom as Adam arrived at Burton’s house. As before, Burton gave him a steaming mug of tea, which he drank without protest. Then, as if in a trance, Adam accompanied Burton down the trail leading through the woods and winding to the ancient graveyard.

Heather waited a few minutes and then snuck through her backyard. As a child, she’d learned a dozen shortcuts through the woods into the graveyard. But Burton and Adam took their time. Heather arrived at the graveyard a full ten minutes before she even heard them meandering down the path. She climbed the branches of a huge weeping willow tree and watched through the thinning fall foliage as Adam arrived with his “friend.”

The autumn sun glowed behind a shrouded gray sky that made Adam’s flesh seem even paler by comparison. On the other hand, Burton Childress seemed to be the brightest object in view. Something within him made him radiate light—a sinister red like the glowing of a flame. Indeed, Adam seemed drawn to him like a moth to a candle.

Burton led Adam to the edge of the graveyard and, by the slightest suggestion of the hand, ushered him to sit atop a mossy rock. Burton sat next to him, and the two looked at the graves. Adam’s eyes stared straight ahead like a zombie’s. Heather barely recognized him. What was in the tea that Burton gave him?

“Are you excited about the next football game?” Burton asked, feigning interest in sports.

Adam shrugged.

“I just think it’s a shame: no one could throw a pass like Jared Winters, don’t you agree?”

To this, Adam shrugged.

“Too bad Jared was kicked off the team. It’s a travesty, really.” As Burton spoke, he kept his animal eyes tracked so that he could witness Adam’s reactions through his peripheral vision.

Again, Adam shrugged.

“What do you suppose Jared would do if he found out who the informant was?” Burton asked.

“I wouldn’t want to find out,” Adam mumbled.

“It would be unfortunate. Jared’s the most muscular guy at school. He could probably kill someone with one hand! Imagine what he’d do if he met the guy that cost him his athletic scholarships!”

Burton chuckled as Adam grew pale and grabbed his stomach.

“I’m surprised he didn’t go after Heather Primm already. You’d think she’d be his first target. After all, she’s the second-most guilty person, isn’t she? Aside from her informant, that is.” Burton stroked his chin as if lost in thought. Heather rolled her eyes: Burton’s gestures were over-animated. It was clear he was putting on an act for Adam. But Adam seemed too lost to perceive it.

“Unless,” Burton continued, stroking his chin as he eyed Adam, “why, you don’t think Jared could have been the one who attacked Heather?”

The suggestion made Adam’s eyes bulge, though he kept quiet.

Burton licked his lips and continued. “If that were true, that would mean it was the informant’s fault that Heather Primm was attacked. With Jared unable to find the informant, maybe he just went after Heather. I sure hope the informant wasn’t close to Heather at all. If he were, he might be feeling quite guilty right now. Who knows what kind of effects that guilt could have on the body?”

Heather wasn’t sure, but she thought she noticed Adam starting to tremble.

With feigned concern, Burton turned back to Adam. “This walk hasn’t seemed to help you at all,” he exclaimed as if noticing Adam’s pallor for the first time. “We’d better get you back home. Maybe I’ll make you another cup of tea. And maybe I’ll get you some salve to soothe your skin. Your arms seem especially irritated today. You keep rubbing them.”

“No,” Adam moaned, pulling back his arms. “I’ve had enough tea for today. Let me just rest a moment. I’m so tired.”

They sat in silence a while longer. Then, as if noticing it by chance, Burton pointed to one of the graves.

“See that sad-looking grave in the corner?” he asked. His finger, crooked at the joints, pointed to a weather-worn grave that had nearly collapsed in the corner.

Adam nodded absently, his eyes barely focusing on the tombstone.

“What do you suppose that wilted, black plant is? Have you seen it before?” Burton asked.

Heather had seen it growing in his herb garden, but she dared not speak. She dared not even breathe. She did not want to be discovered.

“No. Haven’t you?” Adam whispered.

“I have not,” Burton said, glancing to see if Adam knew he was lying. “And it is the rare plant that I don’t recognize. Curious that it grows so close to my garden.”

In the tree, Heather’s scar burned in anger. How calmly, how coolly Burton could lie!

“Do you know what I think?” Burton asked.

Adam blinked in response, as if even muttering would have cost him too much energy.

“I think,” Burton continued, rubbing his hands together, “that the person buried there took a terrible secret to the grave. Something must have oppressed him during life. Had he but confessed his secret to some confidante, he would have died a peaceful death. But as it stands now, the soil around his final resting place is so polluted by his soiled conscience that even green plants cannot grow there. What do you think?”

Adam mouthed words with his blue lips, but no sound was audible.

“It would be a shame if one of us were to experience such a tragedy. You, for example, seem burdened more each day by a secret guilt. I have asked you time and again to confess it.”

“I have nothing to tell you,” Adam managed.

“You don’t believe me, then? You don’t believe that this man over here—” At this point, Burton leapt from the stone and hurried to the grave. He jabbed it with his crooked finger as he hunched over the black plants. “That this man here went to the grave with a terrible secret? You don’t believe it? How else can you explain this terrible plant that curses his marker?” Adam had no answer. Burton brushed off some moss which had grown on the ancient tomb. The inscription had worn by time and weather, and the time and cause of death was lost to the ages. Burton improvised: “This man went to the grave with a terrible burden, one from which he never recovered.”

“Maybe he wanted to tell. Maybe he just couldn’t.”

It was a clue for Burton. The tip of his tongue kissed his lips the way a snake’s would, as if he were tasting the air for blood.

Without further provocation, Adam’s face blushed, and he grasped his stomach with a tremor. “Members of my team often come to me for advice,” Adam said, pausing for breath before he continued. “They speak their minds to me, open their hearts. I see it is a great relief for them to speak, to get what’s worrying them off their chest. This man buried here should have done the same.”

“And do you not think you would be relieved to share your burden with someone else?”

To this, Adam did not reply. Burton’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me again, Adam: why do you wear long-sleeved shirts all the time? And why do you grasp your stomach? What is it that you’re hiding?”

But before Adam could evade Burton’s question, a childish screech distracted him from his purpose. It was Ruby, and she was running down the pathway, crunching through the autumn leaves, and calling for her sister.

“Hea-ther! Hea-ther!” Her voice echoed through the trees. “Where are you? Have you gone chasing after the bad man next door, the scary man?”

Heather’s scar tingled and froze as she crept, as quietly as she could, down the branch of the willow tree. She tiptoed out of Burton’s field of vision. Luckily, Ruby’s continued screams covered the sound of Heather’s feet crunching through the dried leaves.

“Ruby!” Heather whispered, jumping onto the path in front of her via another of her shortcuts.

“Ah!” Ruby stumbled. “You scared me. I was looking all over for you! Were you looking for the bad man?”

Heather pulled Ruby down onto the forest floor, sitting the child on her lap. “Listen, Ruby. You mustn’t be so loud. Now if anyone asks, you and I were out walking, and we got separated. Understand?”

Ruby frowned. She uprooted two long stalks of drying grass and laid them across her face to mirror Heather’s scar. “That wouldn’t be true,” she said, sticking out her tongue. “You’re asking me to lie.”

“Oh, Rue! Won’t you just do this once for me?”

In response, Ruby giggled, ripped off the two stalks of grass, threw them at her sister, and skipped down the path toward the graveyard where Burton and Adam still sat.

Heather grasped the two stalks of grass and hurried down the path after her. Ruby ran all the way to the graveyard, but she stopped short just in front of Burton Childress. There, her childish mirth dissolved into complete silence as she stared the young man in the eye. Then, in slow motion, she switched her gaze to Adam Hollowcast who sat numbly on the rock just as Heather appeared in the clearing.

“I was hoping you would join us,” Burton said.

“No!” Ruby squealed, holding up a hand to stop Heather from coming any closer. Heather froze and dropped the grass. “Don’t come over here. The bad man wants to get you. He’s already gotten poor Adam. See?” She pointed to Adam, who stared blankly ahead, hardly seeming to notice Heather’s presence.

Capriciously, Ruby giggled and charged at her sister. She leapt to the ground to retrieve the fallen stalks of grass. She tore them into shreds and ran back to Adam. With the shreds of grass still in her hands, she carefully arranged them on Adam’s sleeve in the shape of dozens of tiny T’s.

“Ruby!” Heather scolded. The gesture snapped Adam momentarily from his trance, and he looked at his arms and trembled, his eyes wide with sheer terror. Burton watched the interaction with delight.

Adam’s pale face became even more colorless, and Ruby clapped with delight when he turned pale as a ghost. “Now he is true!” she squealed. Heather stared in silence, not sure what to say until once again, Ruby’s squealing laughter broke the silence.

The child grabbed her sister’s hand and dragged Heather away from the graveyard. “Come away, Heather! The bad man will get you. He’s like a scary witch the way he uses his plants. Can’t you see he’s already taken hold of Adam? He wants you, too. But he’ll never catch me. I won’t let him!”

Heather took one last glance back at the sorry state of her former boyfriend and the devilish enjoyment of his tormentor before hurrying through the forest after her sister.

“Even if by some miracle Heather Primm were accepted again by her peers, that crazy sister of hers would undo it. Have you ever known a more miserable high school student than Heather Primm?” Burton asked.

Adam sighed dreamily and slurred his speech. “Perhaps she isn’t the most miserable. Some of our burdens are not so visible.” He yawned. “At least everyone knows who and what she is. How many of us are true to our own selves?”

“A wise question,” Burton whispered and lost himself in thought. When he snapped out of it, he looked over to see that Adam had slumped over against the mossy rock and dozed into a still sleep. He smiled, glad that he had gotten the mix just right this time.

Burton tested the soundness of Adam’s slumber by rustling some leaves around his feet. When that produced no movement in Adam, he reached out and touched Adam’s flesh, which was as cold as death. That, too, produced no effect.

Then, with delightful care, Burton reached for Adam’s sleeve. The shirt he wore was baggy: he had lost much weight recently, and his clothes hung loose about his body. The sleeve rolled up easily. And what Burton revealed made him draw blood from his own lip for all the power it took to stifle an ecstatic scream.

Burton carefully produced a cell phone from his trench coat and took a series of snapshots to document his findings. His eyes opened wide, their bloodshot orbs catching the dying light of the sun. His mouth curled into a toothy grin. He looked like a student who cheated on a test without being caught or a murderer who has just been acquitted of his crime.

He awoke Adam eventually and led him back like a somnambulist, but not before he allowed his eyes to linger in bliss on his discovery. For there, carved into Adam’s very flesh, were dozens upon dozens of scratches. Adam’s own bloody flesh answered Burton’s query about the identity of Heather’s informant. The informant had marked himself, over and over again, with the ignominious letter T.