Free Wicked Angel by Taylor Caldwell Page A

wrong?”
    “No,” said Bobbie loudly. “It isn’t what Bruce does, Mr. Saint. It’s just Bruce. He came over one day, and we asked him to play in that old barn over there, and he came with us, and he just stood in the doorway and looked at us. It was scary, the way he looked, and Sally began to cry. She was only six then,” he added, with superiority.
    “Bruce is shy,” said Mark, feeling a little sick. “He’s hard to get acquainted with. You ought to have helped him.”
    “He isn’t shy, Mr. Saint,” said Bobbie resolutely, looking at Mark with honest gray eyes. “He may be lots of things, but he isn’t shy. Bruce just stood there in the doorway and looked at us, and we talked to him, and tried to get him to climb into the loft with us, and he never answered. He never said a single word, Mr. Saint. I’m not telling you a fib. He stood there a long time and just watched us, and his eyes were all big, and he didn’t say a word. It was real scary. Sally was crying, and I grabbed her arm and I pushed Bruce out of the way, and we ran home.”
    “But you’re two years older than Bruce is, Bobbie. Why should a boy less than seven scare you? You’re as tall as he is, and probably as strong. I can’t believe that when he just looked at you you were frightened.”
    Bobbie colored again, but his eyes did not shift from Mark’s. “I sure was, Mr. Saint. And it takes a lot to scare me. I’m not even afraid of ghosts.”
    Mark smiled. Sally said, “He’s got the funniest eyes. Real bright and funny, when he stares at you. I hope he doesn’t come here anymore.”
    “He’s a very bright boy,” said Mark. “He isn’t quite seven yet, but he can read and write very well, and draw and paint and do arithmetic as well as anyone in the third grade. And he’s lonely. He doesn’t know how to act with other children.”
    “He sure don’t,” said Bobbie fervently. “Want us to help find your dog, Mr. Saint?”
    “No, thanks. He’ll turn up. I just hope he hasn’t got lost or gone down to the main road where all the traffic is. Give my regards to your father, Bobbie. I’ll give him a ring tomorrow.”
    The children waved goodbye to him, and watched him until he was out of sight among his own trees. Mark could feel their eyes following him. He thought of Bobbie, who would probably be an estate lawyer like his father. Good people, kind people, but dull. Nevertheless, it would be easier on a man to have a son like Bobbie.
    But what is it about Bruce that makes me uneasy? Mark asked himself. A father couldn’t ask for a more brilliant boy, or a better-looking one. I wonder why I can’t forget how he smashed up Alice’s purse two years ago. After all, he was not quite five then. He’s very obedient, even though Kathy spoils him; I don’t have any trouble with him since I slapped him that summer. I can’t get close to him; in a way he’s mysterious. Oh, hell. I’m imagining things. But sometimes he makes me feel like a bumbling fool, and not any too bright.
    He continued to search for the dog for almost an hour longer. But Petti had completely vanished. Mark returned to the cabin, hoping to hear a welcoming bark. But only Kathy and Mamie were there. Kathy explained that “Angel” had been very tired; his skin had felt quite hot; she had taken his temperature. She had examined him carefully, and she was frank about the details. He had no temperature, thank heavens, but she had put him to bed just to be safe. One couldn’t be too careful about The Children. He was asleep now. He was worried about the dog. He had cried.
    Petti did not return, though Mark sat until long after midnight on the porch of the cabin and waited, and whistled softly. The next day he went down to the village to put an advertisement for Petti’s return in the local newspaper. The offered reward was large. Mark felt a real loss; he hadn’t known how fond he had become of the little dog until now. But Angelo was complacent. He smiled