The Probing: Leviathan, The Mind Pirates, Hybrids, The Village Page 18

  Mr. Diaz looked at the doctor, who shook his head. “She’s obviously not herself,” the doctor said. “Probably hallucinating. Does your wife use any sort of recreational drugs?”

  “No!” Mr. Diaz recoiled from the question. “She never has, and she never would, not with the baby! She’d never do anything to hurt our child.”

  Mr. Diaz stepped away from the doctor, and his gaze crossed mine as he looked toward the door. Then he set his jaw and strode toward us, meeting me and the others out in the hallway.

  “Where’s that detective?” he asked, looking around. “She said those kids”—he swallowed hard—“took her to monsters who took our baby. I want to know who they are, and I want them found. I don’t know what they’re up to, but I want them found and arrested.”

  As he stalked off in search of the police, I turned to the others. “Los grises,” I repeated. “Anybody know what that means?”

  Tank shrugged, then we all looked at the professor, who cleared his throat before answering: “The gray ones.”

  Brenda, Daniel, Tank, and I went back to the house, leaving the professor with Mr. Diaz. For some reason my neighbor seemed to take comfort from the professor’s calm demeanor, and for the first time I began to see why James McKinney might have been an effective priest in his former profession. When he wasn’t arguing, he could be a compassionate listener, and that’s what he was doing with Mr. Diaz—listening.

  When the professor finally arrived back at the house, he sat in the living room and we gathered around him. “Typical abduction story,” he said, glancing up at me as he propped his feet on the ottoman. “Could have been scripted from The X-Files. Woman is home, kids knock on the door, she lets them in. Next thing she knows, she wakes up in the hospital bed and she’s not pregnant anymore.”

  “What about the things she was saying?” I asked. “Talking about the gray ones and telling them to stay away from her?”

  The professor shrugged. “If those are actual memories, they’re buried somewhere in her subconscious. She may recall them in dreams or while under the influence of drugs or hypnosis, but I was there when the police questioned her, and she couldn’t remember anything.”

  “They still got her tied down?” Brenda’s eyes narrowed. “I hate it when doctors tie people up like dangerous animals.”

  “She’s calm now, so they removed the restraints. She’ll be able to come home tomorrow if there are no complications.”

  “But what about the baby?” I asked. “She was really pregnant, nearly full term. You can’t tell me that baby somehow got reabsorbed into her body.”

  “The attending physician thought it might be a hysterical pregnancy,” the professor said, “until Mrs. Diaz’s obstetrician arrived. She opened her laptop and pulled up ultrasounds that showed a normal, healthy baby in the womb.”

  “What about those strange kids?” I asked. “Have the police found them? What did Maria remember about them?”

  The professor’s mouth quirked. “Not much, and no, the police haven’t found them. No one else has even seen them.” He glanced around. “Is anyone else ready for dinner? I’m starving. I didn’t lower myself to raiding the snack machines like you guys did.”

  I went off to dig through Sabba’s collection of take-out menus, but I couldn’t get Mrs. Diaz and those kids out of my mind.

  After dinner, the conversation turned to weird kids. I tried to do an Internet search, but the terms “strange kids” and “odd children” didn’t bring up anything other than stories about parents contemplating the difficulty of child-rearing.

  But then I remembered the oddest thing about those kids, the thing Brenda caught in her sketch: the black eyes. And my first search for “black-eyed kids” brought up exactly what I was searching for.

  “Listen to this entry about black-eyed children,” I said, interrupting Tank’s story about a toddler who could throw a football fifty yards. “‘According to an urban legend, unusual children with completely black eyes have been spotted in various neighborhoods around the world. These children—called BEKs—reportedly knock on strangers’ doors, usually at night, and ask to be let in. Most people report feeling an unusual sense of dread or fear in the presence of these children, and evil is supposed to befall the hapless person who falls for their disguise and lets them in.’”

  “Disguise?” Brenda interrupted. “If they’re not kids, what are they?”

  I held up a finger and kept reading. “‘Explanations of these and other strange appearances go back through the ages. In China and Japan, folklore reveals stories of vengeful ghosts, hungry apparitions that appear and demand to be fed. Those who do not submit to the ghosts’ demands meet with bad luck or illness. Europe compares them to vampires, tales from the Middle East offer stories of the Djinn, supernaturally empowered beings from which we get the word genie. Some say the BEKs are manifestations of dark thoughts; in the Middle Ages, they might have been considered changelings, soulless children substituted for real children by the fairies. Stories of these black-eyed children, who seem poorly adapted to contemporary social situations and skills, have been around since the 1990s.’”

  “Urban legend, huh?” Tank smiled a humorless smile. “That means the story’s not true, right?”

  “Sometimes,” I answered, “but sometimes not. Sometimes people label stories as urban legends just because there doesn’t appear to be a logical explanation for the story’s events. But sometimes the answers to those stories lie beyond our current understanding.”

  “Some people,” the professor inserted, “believe that aliens seek human babies in order to create hybrids that are half-human, half-alien. Others say that the culprits are human beings—government-types who are using alien DNA to create hybrids for military purposes.”

  “Sounds like something The Gate would be interested in,” I said. “Human-alien hybrids to colonize another planet—”

  “Or live under the sea,” the professor interjected. “Who knows what they’re planning?”

  “That makes no sense,” Brenda said. “Why would anyone want to mix our races?”

  “Our species,” I corrected. “Our races are already mixed—people on this planet have become so mingled that we’re all human mutts. If you’re talking about mingling humans and aliens, you’d be talking about two different species.”

  “Still.” She shook her head. “If aliens are so superior, why don’t they just wipe us out and take over the planet? That’s what they want in all those sci-fi movies.”

  “Hang on a minute.” Tank’s eyes had taken on a thoughtful look. “I know I usually don’t add much to these conversations, but bear with me, okay? I don’t believe in aliens—not from outer space, anyway. I mean, if alien beings lived on Mars or even the moon, don’t you think we would have seen some evidence of their existence? We’ve sent cameras up there. We’ve filled the galaxy with space junk—if there were other civilized species in space, don’t you think we would have seen some of their space junk floating around? Something? We’ve sent cameras pretty doggone far into space, and they haven’t been able to prove that anything’s out there.”

  “A lot of people have seen UFOs,” Brenda pointed out. “And a lot of other people claim to have been abducted by aliens. They can’t all be crazy.”

  “I don’t think they’re crazy,” Tank said. “I think maybe these creatures, whatever they are, aren’t from other planets. Maybe they’re coming from other dimensions, or other worlds—like Littlefoot or the monsters in the fog. We know the other worlds exist, and we know they can come through certain portals. So maybe these other things are plenty real, they’re just not what we think they are.”

  Brenda crossed her arms. “That still doesn’t answer the question about why they’d want a hybrid species.”

  Tank shifted his weight and sighed heavily. “I thought of something,” he said slowly, “but I’m not sure I want to tell you. Might be like casting pearls before swine.”

  Brenda stiffened. “Are
you calling us pigs?”

  Tank’s face went the color of a tomato. “No, no—it’s just an expression. But I’ve got an uncle who’s a preacher, and he says that the devil has always been trying to thwart God’s plan to redeem the human race. So back in the old days, he sent demons to make babies with human women—it’s in the Bible. Those babies grew up to be giants, and they were around even after the flood. Some of them had six fingers and six toes, so I guess you could say they were hybrids.”

  I blinked. Being Jewish, I’d heard Torah stories all my life, but I’d never heard anything about demonic hybrids. “Where in the Bible?” I asked, staring hard at Tank. “That sounds crazy.”

  “Genesis,” Tank answered. “The story of the Nephilim.”

  “That story,” the professor said in a soothing voice, “has been interpreted in various ways. Some say those who fathered the giants were merely exalted men, not spiritual beings like angels or demons. I would cast my vote in that direction.”

  Tank shrugged, leaving the professor with the last word, but I wasn’t convinced the professor was right. Since leaving the priesthood, he had a tendency to automatically reject any explanation that had to do with God, but his explanation of the Nephilim did not explain how “exalted men” could create a race of giants.

  “Maybe we don’t have to know all the answers—at least not yet,” I said. “Seems to me the most important thing is helping Mrs. Diaz find her baby.”

  “If the kid has been whisked into another dimension,” Brenda said, frowning, “good luck with that.”

  CHAPTER

  7

  Later that day I sat at the desk in the study, searching the Internet for stories of fetal abductions. Rain had been falling since before sunrise, so none of us were in the mood to go outside. I kept looking out the window at the Diaz house, hoping to see Mr. Diaz bringing his wife home, but apparently they were still at the hospital.

  I looked up when I heard a soft cough from the hallway. The professor was standing in the doorway, a strange look on his face.

  “Andi,” he said softly, his face blanketed by a peaceful expression I rarely saw him wear, “if I take a picture on my phone, can you print it for me?”

  “Sure.” I gestured toward the machine in the corner. “That printer does a pretty good job with photos. How big do you want it?”

  “Small. Pocket-size.” He flashed a smile, then tilted his head. “Join me in the other room, will you?”

  Curious, I followed him to the family room, where Daniel was playing a video game, Brenda was sitting on the carpeted floor and looking at magazines, and Tank was snoring on the sofa. The professor stood in the center of the room and cleared his throat. When Tank didn’t stop snoring, Brenda punched his shoe.

  “If I may have your attention,” the professor said, casting his gaze around the room, “I’d like to commemorate this occasion with a group photo. You’ll all have to gather around and squeeze in tightly for this selfie to work.”

  Brenda frowned. “You want a picture now? I don’t have my eyelashes on.”

  “Just something to remember this little trip,” the professor answered. “I’m not expecting black tie and full makeup.”

  Tank threw me a questioning look, and so did Brenda. I shrugged, not having the faintest clue what the professor was up to. He wasn’t sentimental, and this trip wasn’t exactly worth commemorating, in my view. But if he wanted to do something to remember this trip, why not humor him?

  “Come on,” I said, stepping to the professor’s side. “You too, Daniel. You’re gonna have to leave your game for a minute.”

  Feeling awkward and clumsy, we all gathered around the professor and smiled at the phone in his hand. He, of course, didn’t smile, but carefully adjusted the phone until we were all visible on the screen, then he pressed the button. We heard the sound of a shutter click, then the professor nodded. “Resume whatever you were doing,” he said, stepping out of the huddle. “Andi, can you print this image for me?”

  I led the way back to my grandfather’s study. “What’s this about?” I asked, glancing at the professor. “Are you doing some kind of experiment, or getting sentimental in your old age?”

  “Neither.” He gave me a tight-lipped smile and pressed keys on his phone. “I’ve just sent the image to your e-mail account, so if you could print it . . .”

  “Pocket-sized?”

  “Correct. Just slip it beneath my door after you’ve trimmed it. Thank you.”

  He turned toward his room, but before leaving he caught my shoulder, stepped closer, and planted a kiss on my forehead. “Dear Andi,” he whispered, his voice growing rough. “You are the daughter I might have had . . . if I’d made different choices along the way.”

  I blinked, my thoughts stuttering in surprise, while he released me and returned to his room, closing the door behind him.

  CHAPTER

  8

  The next morning I rose early and made waffles—my grandmother’s recipe, complete with the secret ingredient of almond extract—which filled the kitchen with a scrumptious aroma. I wanted the team to be in a good mood because I hoped to enlist them in my search for Mrs. Diaz’s missing baby.

  The scent of waffles and sizzling bacon did the trick. Tank came into the kitchen right after I’d finished cooking, and Daniel and Brenda followed soon after. Brenda went outside and brought in the newspaper, then we all sat down to eat. The professor’s seat, however, remained empty, and I kept glancing at it, wondering if he was working or had decided to sleep late.

  “Look at these shoes,” Brenda said, holding up the front of the Lifestyle section. “Ten-inch platforms. I’d need a ladder to climb into those things.”

  “I don’t think they’re meant to be walked in.” I shrugged. “Aren’t those things just for fashion shows?”

  “The Reds traded for a new first baseman,” Tank announced. “They have several good infielders on their farm teams. Wonder why they didn’t just move one of them up?”

  I blew out a breath, not knowing how to respond to Tank because I knew next to nothing about baseball or to Brenda, since I knew nothing about fashion. I looked at Daniel, who had put down his handheld video game and allowed his gaze to drift over the abandoned local news section on the table. Then he put his finger on the paper and slid it over, across the table, until it rested in front of me. “Read,” he said, not meeting my gaze.

  I picked up the paper and scanned the largest headline: Local Youth Contracts Mysterious Illness. My pulse skittered.

  With increasing alarm, I read the story. According to the newspaper article, Georgia Hanson had run into a mini-market while her son, Jax, waited in the family van. When she returned, another child was sitting in the van with her son. Alarmed, she opened the back door to see who the child was. She asked for his name, but he kept his head down and didn’t answer. Instead Jax said, “He wanted to come in, so I let him.”

  Alarmed, Mrs. Hanson ordered the unknown boy out of the car. He obeyed, not speaking, but when he left the car, he looked directly at her, and that’s when she panicked—the boy appeared unusually pale and wan. She instinctively glanced at her son, who was still sitting in the back seat, and when she shifted to look again at the strange boy, he had vanished.

  Almost immediately, Jax doubled over in pain, then passed out. Mrs. Hanson drove him to the emergency room, where the doctors examined him and could find nothing wrong. But Jax remained unconscious and would stay in the hospital until he came out of his coma.

  “Guys, listen to this.” With a quaver in my voice, I read the news story to Brenda, Daniel, and Tank, pausing only long enough to look at the professor’s empty seat and wish he’d hurry out to join us. I could sense a pattern in the odd events apparently precipitated by the black-eyed children, but I was too close to the story to see it. What did it all mean?

  “Daniel,” I said, lowering the newspaper, “would you go knock on the professor’s door? Tell him we need him.”

  Daniel tilt
ed his head and gave me a strange little smile. “He’s gone.”

  “Gone?” Brenda blinked. “Gone where?”

  Daniel held up his hand, pointed upward, and then rotated his hand as if he were pointing in all directions.

  “This isn’t a good time for guessing games,” Brenda said, an edge to her voice. “If this is a joke, Daniel—”

  I sincerely hoped it was. I left the table and walked down the hallway that led to the bedrooms, trying my best to ignore the ominous feeling in my gut.

  I knocked on the professor’s door and heard no answer. Gathering my courage, I turned the doorknob . . . and realized that Daniel was right. The professor was gone, but he couldn’t have gone far because his briefcase, his glasses, his laptop, and his current notebooks were still on the desk. But what I couldn’t find, even when I searched the desktop and opened the lid of his suitcase, was the small photograph I had printed for him last night.

  Abby, who had followed me into the room, sniffed the floor around the desk, then sniffed the professor’s pajamas. Then she sat politely and tilted her head as if asking, “Well? Where’d he go?”

  “I wish I knew, Abs.”

  Brenda came into the room as I was opening the professor’s laptop. “Do you think he went out for coffee or something?”

  I shook my head. “I was up early this morning, so I would have heard the alarm beep if anyone opened a door.”

  “Have you tried calling his cell phone?”

  “Yeah. His phone is right over there, on the nightstand.”

  Brenda leaned against the doorframe. “Have you searched the house? Maybe he wanted a quiet place to think . . . or maybe he wanted to walk along the beach.”

  I gave her a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look. “Have you ever known him to willingly walk on the beach?”

  “Well . . . there’s a first time for everything, right?”

  “Yeah, but something tells me that this is a far bigger first time than we realize.” I sank to the edge of the bed, where the blankets and pillow were neat and unrumpled. “Didn’t his behavior yesterday strike you as odd?”