Chapter XIX

Sabine Drew sat in her car by the side of the road outside the town of Gretton. The welcome sign stood fifty feet in front of her—"GRETTON—HAPPY TO VISIT, SORRY TO LEAVE"—but she made no effort to investigate the truth of this claim. The crying of the child was louder and more persistent now. If she were to enter Gretton, she was afraid the noise might become painful, even deafening. It was, she thought, as though the boy, aware that someone had heard him, was increasingly desperate to be found. It had been a long time since she'd heard a child cry that way.

She could try to pinpoint the source, but knew it would be difficult. That was one of the problems with her gift (or talent, curse, affliction—delete as appropriate, because it made no difference to her): it was often general, not specific, and trying to interpret what she was seeing or hearing was like attempting to unlock meaning from an abstract painting or photograph. If one got too close, it deteriorated into a collection of daubs or pixels; too far away, and one couldn't perceive anything at all. It was about finding a balance before slowly, carefully focusing on details.

Or so she told herself as she gripped the steering wheel, her eyes fixed on the sign. The truth was that she was frightened. She wanted no part of this. It had cost her so much before; she didn't want to risk bringing ignominy on herself again. But there was such a tormented edge to the child's wails. Wherever he was, he was suffering, and that suffering had to be brought to a close, except—

Except that Gretton felt bad: bad the way Toul Svay Prey High School in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, had felt when she'd visited it as a Peace Corps worker, back when she was still willing to travel beyond the boundaries of her home state. The Khmer Rouge had renamed the school S-21 and used it to systematically torture and exterminate their enemies. The official figure was 18,000 killed; only fourteen victims were said to have survived. Sabine didn't know if her presence had woken the dead, like a high-pitched sound rousing dogs, or whether they were always screaming and she was just one of the few who could hear them, but it had taken all her strength to remain in the precincts of the old school, even as the tumult increased in volume. She had recognized an obligation to stay and to listen, and she was convinced that when at last she had been able to take no more and fled from that place, there were fewer screams. Some were just waiting to be heard, and having been heard, were gone. Toul Svay, or Tuol Sleng as it was also known, was a monument to human malevolence, a physical manifestation of the depths to which men and women were capable of descending. Gretton was not on that level—few places could be—but it had something of the same stink to it, as well as an edge that Tuol Sleng had lacked.

Because the malevolence here wasn't human alone.

A tap at her window startled her from her reverie. A uniformed officer was standing by the glass, one hand resting lightly on the butt of his gun, though more out of habit and training than any fear of her. He looked to be in his forties, and could have done with taking some exercise, she thought.

She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw an unmarked patrol car parked close behind her, its dashboard lights flashing. She hadn't even noticed its approach. Fine psychic you are, said a voice that might have been her mother's.

She hit the button to open the window.

"Is everything all right, officer?"

His name badge read POULIN, and a crest on his jacket identified him as a constable. Sabine had a vague recollection that Gretton lacked a police force, so Poulin represented the law in town.

"I was about to ask you the same thing, ma'am."

"I had a touch of migraine," she said, "so I decided to pull over until the worst of the nausea passed."

It wasn't completely a lie. Her head hurt, and she did feel unwell. Gretton was responsible, or whatever had poisoned the town, but she wasn't about to share that with Constable Poulin. She didn't get any sense of ill will from him, only the tension that any encounter like this seemed to inspire in law enforcement, allied to a certain predilection in his case for the abuse of power. She didn't need her gift to be able to pick up on his insecurity. If he wasn't quite a bully, he possessed a bullying tendency, and wore his authority like a suit of armor.

Poulin showed no great sympathy for her condition. It wasn't that he didn't believe her: he just didn't care. Neither could she tell him that she'd been drawn to his town by a child's cries, and that something foul had taken up residence there, because such talk was likely to invite the kind of attention that ended badly.

"License and registration, please."

He stepped back as she rummaged in the glove compartment for the registration, followed by a search in her purse for her license. His palm, she noticed, remained on his gun. She found it interesting that he was left-handed. It reminded her of a film she'd seen as a child, with Paul Newman playing Billy the Kid as an overgrown juvenile delinquent, except Poulin was no Paul Newman. Even dead, Newman was better-looking than most of the men she knew. Poulin, by contrast, looked like someone had used his face to break rocks.

This town has corrupted you, and you don't even realize it.

She handed over the documents.

"Turn off your engine," said Poulin, and this time he didn't bother adding the "please."

She watched him waddle back to his car and begin tapping on the little computer by the dashboard. He wouldn't discover much of interest. She'd never even received a ticket. Unless—

Well, best not to think about that. She'd find out soon enough.

Poulin came back within a couple of minutes and returned her documents.

"Sorry about your headache," he said, "but you can't stay here. You're too close to the corner. A truck coming around fast could rear-end you, and then you'd have more than nausea to worry about."

But Sabine didn't want to go into Gretton: not yet, maybe not ever.

"You know," she said, "I'm feeling better already, so I may just go home. I was only driving for pleasure anyway."

"Then you be careful. You'll see a deserted lot on the left just before the sign. Best use it to make the turn."

She thanked him, started the car, and was soon heading back the way she'd come. Poulin remained in his vehicle, paying her no further attention as she passed. Her headache began to recede as soon as Gretton was out of sight.

But the child continued to cry.