Read Online The Cathar Secret: A Lang Reilly Thriller by Gregg Loomis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gregg Loomis
Tags: thriller, Historical, Literature & Fiction, Thrillers, Action & Adventure, Crime, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers & Suspense, Thriller & Suspense, Kidnapping
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him where he stood. The child was unaware he was holding his glass inverted, Kool-Aid spilling and streaking his pants blood red.
Manfred looked from Wynn to Paige and back again, his expression as puzzled as Wynn's was frightened.
"I think I go home now," Manfred said.
For the next few minutes, Paige's soothing words did little to comfort the quaking and tearful panic of the child in her arms. Wynton was frightened himself, worried some illness had mysteriously befallen his son. When it became clear that he was just badly frightened, Wynton checked the street, first for whatever might have given Wynn such a scare, and then for fear that some of the neighbors had seen his son terrified by a glass of Kool-Aid.
Half an hour later, Wynn had retreated to his room, eyes still red from weeping. Paige busied herself with a variety of mindless tasks, while Wynton slumped in his favorite chair and thumbed through the carcass of the Sunday Journal-Constitution.
Finally, he put the paper down. "What in the hell precipitated that ?"
Paige shook her head, as bewildered as her husband. "Who knows? We both asked him and all we got was more tears. Maybe Mrs. Jennins was right, he does have some sort of psychological problem."
Unwilling to admit any son of his was even remotely susceptible to mental disorder, Wynton shook his head. "He's never done anything like that before. There's got to be another answer."
"If you're so sure, why don't you try talking to him?"
Wynton leveraged himself out of the chair. "Okay. I will."
When in his room, Wynn-Three usually turned the pages of his books, looking at pictures of stories read to him enough times to know them by heart. Or he played quietly with his toys. Now he sat silently in the middle of the floor.
"What are you doing, Wynn?" his father asked as soon as he reached the open door to his son's room at the top of the stairs.
"Nothin'."
For once that appeared to be accurate.
"Did Manfred do something? I mean, did he scare you in some way?"
Wynn thought about this for a long moment. "He said 'thank you' and 'I like Kool-Aid.'"
Wynton was used to getting answers from a three-year-old that made little sense. "He was just being polite. What's so scary about that?"
"I don' know."
Wynton was used to this response, too, usually when his son simply didn't want to answer. He sat on the floor in front of Wynn-Three, crossing his legs. "Look, you know your mother and I love you a lot. We're . . . we worry when you get scared."
Wynn-Three nodded.
"And . . ."
Something beside Wynn-Three caught his father's attention, a small white bear. Doodle Bear. A ten-inch teddy bear that came with washable colored markers. You could give Doodle Bear a big smile, add a moustache, tattoos, or whatever else you wanted. One cycle in the wash and Doodle Bear was a blank slate again. Today Doodle Bear was empty of expression but there was something on his arm, paw, or whatever you called a teddy bear's upper appendages.
Wynton picked it up.
A line consisting of what looked like an inverted "V" and the numbers four, two, five, and what looked like a seven with a cross member. Beneath was a triangle.
Wynton held the bear up. "Did you do this?"
Wynn-Three shook his head.
Stupid question. Wynn-Three couldn't write yet. That day-care center at the cathedral had pledged to teach him his letters and numbers, but he hadn't been there long enough.
"Manfred wrote this?"
Again, a shake of the head, no.
Another pointless question. Wynton had watched the two boys while they were in the room. Neither had touched Doodle Bear.
Then who?
CHAPTER 13
That Evening
W AFFLES WERE THE TRADITIONAL SUNDAY NIGHT supper of the Charles family. No pots and pans to be washed, just clean
Manfred looked from Wynn to Paige and back again, his expression as puzzled as Wynn's was frightened.
"I think I go home now," Manfred said.
For the next few minutes, Paige's soothing words did little to comfort the quaking and tearful panic of the child in her arms. Wynton was frightened himself, worried some illness had mysteriously befallen his son. When it became clear that he was just badly frightened, Wynton checked the street, first for whatever might have given Wynn such a scare, and then for fear that some of the neighbors had seen his son terrified by a glass of Kool-Aid.
Half an hour later, Wynn had retreated to his room, eyes still red from weeping. Paige busied herself with a variety of mindless tasks, while Wynton slumped in his favorite chair and thumbed through the carcass of the Sunday Journal-Constitution.
Finally, he put the paper down. "What in the hell precipitated that ?"
Paige shook her head, as bewildered as her husband. "Who knows? We both asked him and all we got was more tears. Maybe Mrs. Jennins was right, he does have some sort of psychological problem."
Unwilling to admit any son of his was even remotely susceptible to mental disorder, Wynton shook his head. "He's never done anything like that before. There's got to be another answer."
"If you're so sure, why don't you try talking to him?"
Wynton leveraged himself out of the chair. "Okay. I will."
When in his room, Wynn-Three usually turned the pages of his books, looking at pictures of stories read to him enough times to know them by heart. Or he played quietly with his toys. Now he sat silently in the middle of the floor.
"What are you doing, Wynn?" his father asked as soon as he reached the open door to his son's room at the top of the stairs.
"Nothin'."
For once that appeared to be accurate.
"Did Manfred do something? I mean, did he scare you in some way?"
Wynn thought about this for a long moment. "He said 'thank you' and 'I like Kool-Aid.'"
Wynton was used to getting answers from a three-year-old that made little sense. "He was just being polite. What's so scary about that?"
"I don' know."
Wynton was used to this response, too, usually when his son simply didn't want to answer. He sat on the floor in front of Wynn-Three, crossing his legs. "Look, you know your mother and I love you a lot. We're . . . we worry when you get scared."
Wynn-Three nodded.
"And . . ."
Something beside Wynn-Three caught his father's attention, a small white bear. Doodle Bear. A ten-inch teddy bear that came with washable colored markers. You could give Doodle Bear a big smile, add a moustache, tattoos, or whatever else you wanted. One cycle in the wash and Doodle Bear was a blank slate again. Today Doodle Bear was empty of expression but there was something on his arm, paw, or whatever you called a teddy bear's upper appendages.
Wynton picked it up.
A line consisting of what looked like an inverted "V" and the numbers four, two, five, and what looked like a seven with a cross member. Beneath was a triangle.
Wynton held the bear up. "Did you do this?"
Wynn-Three shook his head.
Stupid question. Wynn-Three couldn't write yet. That day-care center at the cathedral had pledged to teach him his letters and numbers, but he hadn't been there long enough.
"Manfred wrote this?"
Again, a shake of the head, no.
Another pointless question. Wynton had watched the two boys while they were in the room. Neither had touched Doodle Bear.
Then who?
CHAPTER 13
That Evening
W AFFLES WERE THE TRADITIONAL SUNDAY NIGHT supper of the Charles family. No pots and pans to be washed, just clean
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