Linda Robertson - Vicious Circle

“I’ve seen it, Seph. I think I can handle the verbal details.”

She sounded so much older than nine; well, she was almost ten. Her birthday was in the first part of November, making her a Scorpio.

I got up and went to her. If she’d turned to me, I would have hugged her, but she didn’t, so I grabbed a dish towel and started drying the dishes and putting them away. She wouldn’t know where they all went anyway. “I’m not holding back, Beverley. I just don’t know more than that.”

“But you write a column about them.”

“Yeah, I do. But that’s social stuff. This is more specific individual experience stuff.” I looked around. “Where’s Johnny? I’m sure he would answer your questions. He knows it because he lives it; I just observe it.”

“I think he went out to get the stake and have it ready for the pickup.” She paused. “What if he doesn’t think I’m ready to hear the answers?”

“If you’re able to ask the questions, I guess you are able to hear the answers.”

I thought that satisfied her, but a minute later I realized there were long streaks on her face. I put the rag down. “Beverley?”

With her hands in the water, she dropped her head to her chest and the sobs came out.

I touched her shoulder. “What is it?”

“Me and Mom used to do dishes like this and talk.”

“Oh, honey.” Regardless of her dripping hands, I turned her and took her into my arms and hugged her tight.

“I miss her so much.”

“Of course you do.” I stroked her hair. However many times she needed to cry, I vowed to myself I’d embrace her and let her do so.

When her grief subsided enough that she could pull away and wipe her eyes, she said, “Sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for or ashamed of.”

She nodded, but she still looked miserable.

“I should teach you to meditate.”

“Meditate?”

“Yeah. It’s a great way to clear your mind or get your thoughts in order. If you’re feeling scattered or lost, it can help. It helps me, anyway.”

“Maybe.” She bit her lip. “I’ll try.”

The door from the garage opened, and Johnny stepped inside. Ares bounded in with him. Beverley backed up from me, embarrassed. “Find it?” I asked Johnny.

“Yep,” he said with a quick smile. He tapped his nose. “Followed your tracks.” He put the wooden box against the wall just inside the door.

That he would be back to himself and not hold a grudge about having to give up the stake reassured me.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said.

Apprehensive, I asked, “What is it?”

“Let’s go see.” He took my arm and led me into the dining room and to my desk.

“What?” I said, fearing a joke of some kind coming.

He bent down and slid my binder marked Research from the shelf.

“My notebook?”

He held it out to me. “Open it.”

“I already know what’s in it.” Had he looked through it and corrected passages or added information? Had he found something he didn’t like?

“Do you?” he asked.

Now I was really curious, and concerned.

He wagged the notebook at me. I took it and opened it. It felt much heavier than I remembered, but the first page was just as it should be, a handwritten table of contents. Nothing new listed. I tilted it to the side. The index tabs were all marked as they should be: Historical, Medical, Social, Shelters, Laws Enacted, Laws Proposed, Local, and National. The last two had clippings of articles and lists of governmental and citizen sympathizers, support groups, and anti-wære groups.

There was a new tab at the back, blank. I put my finger on it; glanced at Johnny, who was grinning; and flipped to that section. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Flipping the pages quickly, I realized what it was. “The Codex?” Every page, copied, from the ancient book Menessos had taken. “How did you—?” I looked up.

“Your scanner, duh. You really need to catch up with the times, tech-wise. Although you do have one non-techy thing I like.”

“And that is?” I had an idea of what he might say.

“That three-hole-punch thing. It is handy.”

I didn’t get to enjoy the surprise for long. When Nana found out, she took the notebook from me and started translating. “I’ll have Dr. Lincoln look these over, of course.”

I turned my attention to dinner. My cupboards were nearly empty. I mumbled, “Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboards are bare.”

“Don’t tell me this poor dog’s gonna get none.”

Johnny could put temptation into his voice so easily. I smiled. “Dinner’s gonna be slight.”

“Slight? You’ve got pasta and tomato sauce. I can work with this.” He reached and turned the oven on.

“Seph?” Beverley called from atop the steps.

“Coming.” I started for the hall.

She added, “Someone’s coming up the drive real slow-like.”

I stopped in my tracks and shot a look at Johnny. He stopped midway through pulling a skillet out of the cupboard and slid it back into place. He straightened and turned the oven off. With a dramatic gesture, one that revealed some of his still-remaining irritation with my decision about the stake, we headed for the front door.

“Beverley, you stay up there. Nana—”

“I’m not moving!” The sound of her lighter flicking followed her shout.

Johnny took up a position just out of sight beside the door as I started unlocking it. The steps of whomever Menessos had sent to collect the stake thudded purposefully onto my porch. When he came into view, I couldn’t believe it. And then—then it made perfect sense.

“Samson D. Kline.”

“Miss Alcmedi.” He grinned at me. “Didn’t expect me, did ya?” he said with a laugh. “Well I didn’t expect what I’ve heard that you’ve done, either.”

“What have you heard?”

His grin turned sly. “Gossip on the front porch. How very white-trash. I expected better of the great Persephone Alcmedi, the witch who tempted Menessos back into a circle.”

“What do you mean ‘back’?”

He made a mock show of sympathy. “It’s girls like you who end up disappeared and on the alarmist, scandal-mongering media better known as the evening news. Girls like you who don’t find out enough about the boys they’re playing with.”

“Since background searching led to a near-fatal accident for a friend of mine, why don’t you save me the risk and fill me in yourself, so I can stay off the evening news? I mean, I’d hate to think of you watching those awful shows waiting to hear of my gory end and being infected by the lust-indulging breaks better known as commercials.”

Samson leered. “Fine.”

I opened the door and gestured for him to enter, but didn’t say the inviting words.

He made a show of wiping his boots on my welcome mat, then stepped in, came up beside Johnny, and jerked, startled. As he took in the long line of Johnny’s tall body and his tattooed and pierced face, the preacher seemed to wilt in his blue polyester suit like a kid who has just realized that rope he’s been yanking on is attached to a rather ominous-looking monster.

He recovered himself enough to proceed hurriedly into the living room. “Waterhouse,” he grumbled. “Suits you.”

“I’m surprised you know the artist’s name. I had you pegged as one of those people who decorated with paintings of Jesus on black velvet and considered it high art.”

In the dining room, Nana sniggered but didn’t look up from the notebook.

Samson flopped down onto my couch without having been invited to take a seat. He spread his arms across the back as he put one ankle up on the opposite knee, trying for a pose of comfort and indifference. The position, however, made his pant legs rise up to show that he wore old-man short boots that zipped up the inside. He followed my gaze and slipped out of the position. “Got anything to drink? Like Scotch?”