Free The Cathar Secret: A Lang Reilly Thriller by Gregg Loomis

the waffle iron and dump the rinsed-off plates into the dishwasher. It was Wynn-Three's favorite meal. Tonight, though, the little boy, bathed and clad in his favorite Spider-Man pajamas, was doing little more than moving food around his plate.
         "Something wrong with the waffles?" Paige asked.
         Wynn-Three shook his head.
         "Not hungry?" Wynton suggested.
         "Uh-uh."
         Wynton looked at his son carefully. The child had been listless ever since he had come down from his room.
         "You feeling okay?"
         Wynn-Three nodded and spoke in a near whisper. "Yes."
         "Then, what . . . ?"
         Paige gave a slight shake of her head as if to say "stop."
         Wynton returned his attention to the last syrup-soaked morsel, chased it around his plate with his fork, and swallowed before standing up from the table. "It's about bedtime for you. What would you like me to read?"
         Whenever Wynton was home in time, he read to his son for a few minutes before lights out. It was not only their special time together but

an effort Wynton hoped might implant the idea that books offered a cool alternative to TV.
         Instead of his usual plea for a few more minutes before bed, Wynn-Three, without a word, slipped down from the seat booster that raised him to table level. Wynton grabbed his son, swinging him roughly head down and then onto his shoulders, a move that normally would have produced shrieks of delight. Tonight there was only silence.
         Upstairs, with Spidey tucked in, Wynton gestured toward the bookshelf in a corner of the room. "What story would you like?"
         Wynn-Three shrugged. "Don' care."
         Wynton stepped across the room, removing a slender volume with Disney characters on the cover. " Snow White ? You always like Snow White. "
         Taking silence as acquiescence, he pulled a chair up next to the bed. "Once upon a time there was this babe that was so hot . . ."
         Reducing stories to contemporary language always produced a giggle and a correction. This time there was no response. The face on the pillow was solemn enough to be an adult. Unable to think of anything else to do, Wynton began to read the story as written. There were gentle, even breaths from the bed before Snow White awoke to the Prince's kiss.
         Wynton stood and turned off the bedside lamp. He spent several minutes looking at his son by the dim glow of the Mickey Mouse night-light. What the hell had happened this afternoon? Kids were unpredictable and they didn't come with an instruction book, but this was nuts.
         The thought of Mrs. Jennins crept into his mind as unbidden as a telemarketer, one he couldn't hang up on. What had she said? An unfortunate subconscious memory? Possible depression? Memory of what? Wynn-Three had received nothing but love and perhaps too much attention from the minute he had left the delivery room. What in his short life had there been of a depressing nature? He shooed Mrs. Jennins out of his mind. He was left with only unanswered questions.
         God, but he loved that kid. The long hours, the missed weekends, all to ensure Wynn-Three lacked nothing. Depression? Some Freudian subconscious memory? Bullshit! Wynn-Three was a normal, healthy little boy, notwithstanding some cockamamie crap from some old woman who saw psychosis in little children.
         He stopped at the door, not sure what he was seeing. Stooping, he

picked up Doodle Bear, the enigmatic writing visible only as a blur in the dim light. He carried it downstairs. Paige had settled on the couch in front of the TV to watch 60 Minutes.
         He tossed her Doodle Bear. "Here!"
         Although startled, she made a catch any outfielder would have been proud of. "What?"
         "Wynn-Three's Doodle Bear."
         She looked both puzzled and surprised. "But what . . . ?"
         "Look at his arm."
         She turned the stuffed animal over and squinted. "What's