Free The Arcanum by Thomas Wheeler Page B

between sobs. “You all left me.”
    “I’m sorry.” Doyle meant it, too. They’d all gone on to different lives, whereas their work had been Lovecraft’s life. There was no family for him, nowhere else to turn.
    “It’s too late.” Lovecraft’s body no longer shook. “You’re too late. They’ll kill me in here.”
    “They who?” Doyle persisted.
    “It’s like nothing we’ve ever faced.” Lovecraft lifted his tired eyes. “I know what’s happening. That’s why I’m here.”
    A club rapped on the door. “Ten minutes are up,” the orderly declared.
    Lovecraft panicked, “No! You can’t leave. They’re coming.”
    “Time’s up.” The door creaked open.
    Doyle took Lovecraft by the arms. “So, these murders are related? To Duvall? To the Book?”
    Lovecraft’s eyes were windows onto the abyss. “It’s a conspiracy, Arthur. Two thousand years in the making—”
    “Out!” the orderly barked as he stepped inside.
    Doyle glared at him, then turned back to Lovecraft. “Tell me.”
    Lovecraft stared over Doyle’s shoulder. “Find the others, Arthur.”
    The orderly plucked at Doyle’s jacket. “Now—”
    Doyle shoved him off. “Manners, friend. Manners.” He stepped into the corridor.
    Lovecraft launched after him, only to be halted by the orderly’s arm.
    “Back, you loon,” the orderly growled.
    “They’ll kill me now. They’re watching all of us.”
    “I’ll be back, Howard. I swear it.”
    As the door swung shut, Lovecraft’s words hissed from the shadows. “Find the others! We’re running out of time.”
    The orderly banged his club on the door and gave Doyle a push.
    “Arthur!” Lovecraft’s pleas echoed behind him. “Arthur!”
    TEN-YEAR-OLD Doyle sits in the asylum cage on the edge of his
papa’s wooden cot, watching as his papa sketches a picture with
hands that shake.
    “They live in the grasses, see?” Papa is almost serene. On the
page, an elfin creature peers mischievously from under an autumn oak leaf. It has pointed ears and slitted eyes, and long, tapered fingers. “ ’E’s smilin’ at ye, Arthur.”
    For a moment Doyle forgets where he is. For a moment he is lost
in the picture, lost in the fantasy. He believes the elf exists, somewhere out in the wilderness. His papa makes him believe.
    Then the pencil cracks in two with a snap and the makeshift
easel falls over.
    Doyle turns to his father, who is stiff as a board, eyes rolled
back. Blood trickles between his lips, and his tongue is caught between clamped teeth. His hands are balled into fists at his sides.
Every vein in his neck swells to bursting. His head knocks back
and forth against the wall, though he utters no sound but a high-pitched whining from the nostrils. More blood pours from between his teeth as his tongue severs.
    Doyle sits and watches. He does not understand. He does not
know what to do.
    DOYLE SLAMMED OPEN the stairwell door and braced himself on the banister. Epilepsy. There was a word for it, finally. His father had had epilepsy. Doyle held his head in his hand, feeling an almost insane desire to speak with Duvall. Things were spiraling out of control, and he could not keep up. He was an old man, and Duvall had always been the anchor. Duvall was their leader.
    But his first concern now was Lovecraft. He would be dead unless Doyle found a way to get him out.
    Out of the asylum.
    Out of the cell.
    Out of the straitjacket.
    Not surprisingly, a name came to mind.

13
    THE FERRY ACROSS the Hudson was too slow for Doyle’s liking, though the sun was bright and the wind bracing. Seagulls cawed and circled the boat, then sailed away on the breeze. A family of German tourists—mother, father, and two little girls— joined Doyle at the railing and threw popcorn at the gulls. They were dressed in their Sunday finest for the ride. Doyle smiled; he always enjoyed the company of children. As the ferry rumbled into port, he patted the girls on their cheeks and tipped his hat to the