The Long Escape from Raven Brooks

When Quentin turned around and called out to him quietly, Aaron’s heart was filled with conflicting emotions. On the one hand, he was very scared. On the other hand, well, it was his father! Yes, sometimes he was unpredictable and aggressive, but he never raised a hand to him. Even when Mia… Aaron exhaled shakily and carefully, bending down, walked towards Quentin. The journalist looked quite friendly, maybe the boy would later be able to prove to him that Theodore did not mean harm? He was just confused and sick, his mind too clouded to make rational decisions. Aaron took Quentin’s hand and they were about to leave when an angry muttering was heard from behind them. Aaron turned around sharply. The father walked towards them, slightly dragging his limping leg, and his green eyes burned with hatred. He growled literally like a tiger, curling his fingers like claws, and slowly but decisively moved towards Quentin, rearing up. It was as if he really was some kind of wild animal, and not a man. Aaron felt very uneasy. The father looked like someone who was ready to commit murder. Until now he had held back. Even despite all the rumors that the family of the girl who died on the carousel spread about him, Theodore did not want that death. But now he clearly wanted to grab Quentin by the neck and strangle him. It was… not good… Aaron took a few hesitant steps towards the exit, trusting Quentin’s sweaty palms from excitement. A whole range of emotions flashed for a moment in his father’s eyes: from uncertainty and surprise to fear and resentment. He froze for a moment, and this moment suddenly turned out to be fatal. An old ruin in the form of a stuffed huge metal crow, which had been hanging peacefully from the ceiling until now, suddenly creaked and fell down with a terrible grinding sound. Theodore screamed as the heavy structure pinned him to the floor. The stinking dust of many years flew in all directions, smelling of leather, ash and old fabrics. Aaron put his hand to his mouth, looking at his father in horror. For one terrible moment, it seemed to him that his father had been crushed to death. But soon Theodore moved weakly under the structure, and Aaron’s heart, which had stopped, immediately began to gallop. The father looked around lostly, caught his stunned look and extended his palm as if asking for help, which, of course, was unlikely, because he was too proud to ask anyone for help. Aaron looked at Quentin and sobbed. He really wanted to leave this place, which did not bring up the most positive thoughts, but he could not leave his father. Carefully removing his hand from Quentin’s, he rushed to Theodore and gently touched his shoulder. His father moved weakly and put his hand on his knee, as if trying to hug him. After Mia’s death, they often hugged. It was important for everyone to know that there was someone close to them. Aaron jumped up and, puffing, tried to lift the crow's beak so that his father could crawl out of the trap. Theodore hissed slightly as the ribbed metal feathers ran down his back, leaving bloody scratches on his skin, and he, too, strained his muscles, trying to lift the remaining body of the terrible crow. And why couldn't these birds leave this family alone?

***

Quentin didn’t know how he had managed to maintain his composure and clarity of mind until now. The events of the last few days had incredibly exhausted his body, unaccustomed to such extreme movements. Falls from roofs, scratches from shards of broken glass, burns on fingers, sleepless nights… All this will bother a man for a long time, reminding him of the most terrible moments of his life. But all this faded and turned pale from the feeling of sticky fear, causing the knees to buckle and the heart to beat wildly against the unfortunate chest. By the way, Quentin was sure that it was this feeling that helped him survive until this moment. The heavy massive door opened with a creak. This is their chance! A chance to escape, to escape the trap of a maddened Peterson! Quietly calling the poor, already rather exhausted and tired child to him, Quentin hurried forward when he suddenly heard a loud threatening growl behind him. It seems they had already gone through this just a couple of hours ago, when an angry “neighbor” (Quentin heard a similar address to Mr. Peterson when interviewing local residents) found him next to the kidnapped boy. True, this time the man’s growl was for some reason much more terrifying, causing Quentin’s skin to break out in goosebumps and his back to break out in cold sweat. Squeezing the child’s hand tightly, Quentin hurried out. He suddenly really wanted to close his eyes and be somewhere far, far away from here, just so that this whole nightmare would end. But something told him that everything would not be so simple. They still can’t escape. Mr. Peterson was crazy and much faster. He will easily catch up with them and kill them. He’ll just strangle them like kittens. “We need to run down the street, there’s a police station. We will call for help. We will make it in time, we will be saved,” thought the rational, adult part of the journalist’s consciousness, driving away panicky thoughts. The rustling of floorboards was heard. Mr. Peterson was already heading in their direction, looking more like a wild predator than ever before. Quentin was about to speed up when suddenly a deafeningly loud rustling of something metallic came from behind and forced the man to instinctively turn to the source of the noise. It turned out to be a huge stuffed crow that suddenly fell on the head of the frozen neighbor. He screamed and rushed forward, but the metal carcass of the bird turned out to be too heavy for him to lift. For a moment it even seemed to Quentin that she had crushed him to death, but Peterson remained conscious. This was their chance! Grasping the trembling, cold palm of the rescued boy more tightly, Quentin wanted to leave this terrible place as quickly as possible, but he did not allow him, stubbornly frozen on the threshold. “He’s shocked by what’s happening,” the journalist guessed excitedly. It was necessary to somehow cheer up the child, to show that everything was fine and now they did not need to hesitate, but to save themselves. But all the man managed to do was squeeze the boy’s shoulder reassuringly. After which the boy escaped from his hands and rushed towards the captive Peterson. Quentin had never felt so lost. Somewhere deep inside him, strange, contradictory feelings of sincere misunderstanding, fear and a little bit of resentment were fighting for this damned museum, which simply could not let go of its uninvited guests. And now, silently watching the attempts of the found boy to raise the stuffed animal, the man sincerely did not understand what to do. The boy clearly had a kind heart, since he decided to help his captor. Or is it still a matter of unhealthy attachment? It was supposedly called Stockholm syndrome. Quentin’s gaze darted to the man lying under the metal crow. Mr. Peterson looked visibly ill. He even seemed paler than usual. The neighbor’s gaze was unfocused, as if he was about to lose consciousness. For a moment the men’s eyes met, and Quentin could have sworn that, despite his neighbor’s deplorable plight, he still saw in them only a desperate mixture of hatred, mistrust and a wild desire to fight. The journalist’s eyes automatically darted to the child’s face and immediately met his pleading, wet eyes, completely knocking all other thoughts out of his head. The next minute, Quentin was already puffing and sighing, trying to cope with the heavy metal body and move it to the required distance. After what seemed like a hundred attempts, the heavy structure succumbed to the pressure and rolled slightly to the side.

***

Aaron perked up, feeling the heavy structure move, and began working more actively with his hands. Puffing like a hedgehog, he strained all his muscles to lift the crow even higher and allow his father to get out without unnecessary injuries. Quentin was puffing nearby, and Aaron was incredibly grateful to him, because, in fact, the journalist was not obligated to help them at all. Moreover, it would be more logical for him to call the police and report that the kidnapper they were looking for had been found. Peterson Sr. tried not to move so as not to cause himself unnecessary pain. Everything swam before his eyes. It was not only the loss of blood that affected him, but also the strong blow that slammed him to the floor with a heavy structure. There was a noise in his head, and Theodore was afraid that he would lose consciousness, leaving his son with this… man. What if a journalist helps Forest Defenders? The crow rose even higher, and Theodore, breathing intermittently from pain, crawled out from under the metal pile, dragging his legs behind him. The spine seemed to be intact, but a strong throbbing pain still spread across his back, temporarily immobilizing the man. Who knows, perhaps this saved Quentin, because rage still controlled Theodore, forcing him to hiss under his breath through his teeth. Aaron squatted down in front of him and touched him carefully with his hand, as if he was wary of his sentimentality. Peterson Sr. immediately changed his face and pressed it to his son’s leg. He was feeling sick, his mind was fading in and out, but he didn’t show it so as not to let Quentin take them by surprise. Perhaps, if Quentin had been a little callous, he would have immediately jumped out of the building for help. Perhaps he would have tried to take the boy with him. But something told the man that he would not have abandoned the wounded Peterson so easily, and he was unable to drag him by force — his natural gentleness and kindness got in the way. He also didn’t want to leave the child alone with neighbor, albeit wounded, but still full of surprises. Peterson was clearly wounded and weak enough to put up a decent fight. Otherwise, he would have crushed him, Quentin, into powder long ago. This knowledge gave a slight boost of confidence to the journalist’s heart as he carefully squatted down next to Theodore and gently touched the cuts on his back. Theodore perked up, feeling the fleeting touch. The pain in his back flared up with renewed vigor. With a loud growl, he broke away from Aaron and, curling his fingers, rushed towards Quentin’s face, intending at him with all the fury he knew. Aaron screamed nearby and Theodore felt his son’s hot body fall on him, knocking all the breath out of his chest. With a strangled wheeze, he tried to wriggle out, but his vision suddenly went dark, and he fell face down on the floor. Aaron was terrified when Peterson Sr. lunged at Quentin. Without thinking about anything, he fell on top of his father and tried not to let him reach the journalist. However, in the heat of helping a new acquaintance, he completely forgot about his father’s wounds and remembered only when Peterson, wheezing, fell and stopped moving. “Father!” Aaron shouted, unable to bear it, feeling cold sweat flowing down his back. It seemed to him that all of Raven Brooks heard his screams, but in fact his throat, parched from fear and dehydration, produced only a hoarse, barely audible whisper, similar to crow cawing. Falling to his knees next to his father, he raised his head and shook him slightly, trying to bring him to his senses and completely forgetting about Quentin standing next to him, whose breath was stirring the hair on the back of his neck. “Father?!” — Quentin repeated to himself in shock. Even more questions appeared in his head, but now there was clearly no time to indulge in thoughts. Peterson needed emergency help, and they would be able to figure out what was happening once the wounds were neutralized. Rising with difficulty to his legs trembling from recently experienced fear, the journalist carefully touched the shoulder of the boy sitting next to him and, filling his voice with confidence, said quietly: “Your father needs help. He’ll be fine, but first we need to tend to his wounds.” Aaron, sobbing, raised his head and stared at him with dull brown eyes, not understanding what they wanted from him. Only after a minute did something resembling understanding appear in his gaze, and he nodded slowly. Carefully lowering his father’s head to the floor, he stood up and looked around, trying to figure out what exactly to use for transportation. Peterson Sr. was a burly man, too heavy for a child and a frail adult. And the bedroom was on the second floor, where you couldn’t easily get there. Aaron walked around the hall, trying to keep Quentin in his line of sight. Of course, he seemed very kind, but it was still worth remembering that everyone in Raven Brooks lied to each other. Not far from the entrance to the small corridor, Aaron found a stretcher. It seems that the workers who were supposed to carry out the restoration of the museum carried all kinds of construction debris in them. Puffing, he took the stretcher and dragged it towards the crow. While the boy went in search of something to help transport his father, Quentin remained by the unconscious Peterson’s side. After conducting a quick examination, because the journalist had little knowledge in the field of medicine, the man assessed Peterson’s condition as quite stable, without injuries incompatible with life, and this was pleasing. Slightly turning the heavy Theodore onto his side and then onto his back to make it easier for him to breathe and to make it easier for himself to work in the form of dragging this body onto a stretcher, which the found boy had carefully dragged, Quentin began to carefully, trying not to touch the wounds on Peterson’s back and shoulders, drag him onto the desired platform. Fortunately, with the help of Peterson’s son, they still managed to do this. How they got to the bedroom deserved a whole comic, or tragic, depending on how you look at it, play. Probably, after such a relatively short-distance adventure, Peterson’s wounds increased twice as much. At least they dropped it eight times, no less. When they managed to drag their heavy but expensive load, both Quentin and Aaron themselves fell exhausted onto the bed and lay on it for some time, restoring their breath and strength. Aaron was the first to come to his senses. So what? They didn’t beat him. Except that he was a little malnourished, and was in constant melancholy because of his sister, but overall, he was quite healthy. Rolling over his stomach awkwardly, he stared at his father. He looked peaceful for now, still unconscious, but Aaron knew it wouldn’t be for long. Frowning, he shook his head. He didn’t like it, but he had no choice. If his father woke up and found Quentin nearby, he would simply kill him. This means that it was necessary to immobilize the father, temporarily, until they find out everything. Thinking about this, Aaron stood up and began to look for something with which he could tie his father and not bring him additional torment. Feeling the boy stir nearby, Quentin then opened his eyes and turned his gaze to him. Following his actions, he thought that he was looking for something with which he could wipe away the blood and bandage his father’s wounds. “It would be a good idea to tie him up first,” Quentin thought reluctantly, casting a quick glance in the direction of the older Peterson. Taking a bottle of water out of his bag, Quentin looked around uncertainly, looking for some rags. It seems he found something similar in the closet. After a quick search, the satisfied journalist pulled out several dirty-colored pillowcases from a nearby cabinet. They looked somewhat old and had not been used for a long time, so the man correctly reasoned that Peterson was unlikely to be upset about their damage. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Quentin began to unbutton Peterson’s shirt with careful, gentle movements. “Is your name Aaron?” Quentin, in turn, gently asked the boy to cheer him up a little. Aaron, who had already forgotten about Quentin, froze when he heard a voice behind him. His heart, which had calmed down, began to beat with renewed vigor, and nausea came to his mouth. Turning slowly, Aaron looked at the journalist with doe eyes and nodded uncertainly. Approaching his father, he with difficulty turned him onto his stomach — Peterson groaned muffledly in his sleep — and began to wrap one of his arms, having previously wrapped a cloth around his wrist so that his father would not rub it, trying to get out. And the fact that he would try to break out was expected with one hundred percent probability. “It’ll probably be better this way,” Quentin thought clearly after following the boy’s actions and smiled encouragingly at him, catching his frightened gaze. In order not to put pressure on Aaron, the man decided not to bombard the child with questions for now and start treating the older Peterson. The poor boy has already suffered so much! Having pulled up the shirt on someone else’s back, Quentin quickly examined it, looking for the most problematic areas. Then he wet the cloth and began to carefully wipe away the bloody marks, despite everything that had happened, trying to do it as gently and painlessly as possible. That was his nature, not capable of causing pain to anyone. Even to the one who recently tried so desperately to strangle him. “Since Mr. Peterson is Aaron’s father, could it be that he was trying to protect his child in this way?” Quentin mentally suggested, while simultaneously cutting the fabric with scissors and bandaging Theodore across his torso. Having finished with this, Quentin shifted his neighbor to a more comfortable position and once again smiled encouragingly at Aaron. “There you go. Now he just needs to get some sleep and he’ll be fine,” he added, just in case. Aaron looked at him in confusion. “But… he’s fine anyway,” he muttered, nervously crumpling the remains of the rope, “Only… he was scratched a little… He didn’t sleep for four days, for some reason…” “Yes, of course, he’s fine,” Quentin said calmly, not giving the boy a chance to feel insecure. “It’s just,” the man involuntarily remembered the adventures of the last days and swallowed nervously, “he’s tired. Are you… uh… hungry?” he asked, noticing that Aaron was quite thin. Aaron listened to his feelings. “Uh-uh… yes…” he said hoarsely, uncertainly. The last time they ate with their father was sometime yesterday morning. Naturally, there was no food in the museum, and Peterson Sr. took risks by raiding the local bakery. Unfortunately, they didn’t sell anything more than nutritious buns, and the closest grocery store was two blocks from the museum, and Theodore didn’t risk being seen on the street that far. So their food consisted, at most, of stale buns and flatbreads, which Theodore carried through the back door of the bakery. And they were not private, since Theodore was not always able to get food due to the fact that sometimes the baker was on her guard, noticing the lack of food. “Okay. Me too,” Quentin admitted with a smile and lightly patted his pockets, looking for the candy bar he had put there earlier. Having found it, the man immediately handed it to the boy. “Here. Now we’ll find something more edible.” Aaron took the offered thing and turned it over in his hands. It smelled like something berry-chocolate, but in appearance it resembled something less edible. Turning his head slightly, he put the bar in his pocket and looked expectantly at Quentin with a slightly more relaxed look. “Shall we go to the kitchen? When I opened the rooms, I found a kitchen behind one of the closed ones. It seems there was food there,” Quentin shared. Adjusting his glasses that were sliding down his nose, he rose to his feet and glanced questioningly in Aaron’s direction. Leaving him alone with Mr. He didn’t want Peterson. Well, let him be his father. Well, let him be attached. He didn’t want to take risks. “Kitchen? Is there a kitchen here?” For the first time in a long time, Aaron relaxed enough to be curious. In the museum, both Petersons tried to keep a low profile. Theodore never opened any of the locked rooms, fearing that there were sensors on them that could declassify their location. It’s good that there were no cameras inside the building. There was one outside, by the porch, and Theodore learned to escape from the museum without coming into her line of sight. Mostly both Petersons wandered around the first floor. Fortunately, it was almost completely open. Sometimes, when Theodore became paranoid, he locked his son in the attic, in a protected nook near a bulletproof window. As practice has shown, even such reinsurance did not protect against surprises. Well, at least Quentin seemed to be decent. “It seems like that,” noticing that the boy had relaxed a little, the journalist readily continued the dialogue. “Apparently someone has already stayed here,” Quentin decided to tactfully remain silent about the sectarian nooks and crannies found on the second floor. He didn’t know how Aaron would react to this, so he was as careful as possible. “Or the museum curator was resting there.” Aaron shrugged, fearlessly following the journalist. At the door, he cast a worried glance at his father, but he went from fainting to just a sound, serene sleep. Apparently, the bandaged wounds stopped hurting, and he had not had sleep for a long time. “Father said that the museum curator died five years ago,” he noted artlessly. “Do you think there’s anything edible left in there?” “Oh… Apparently, we’ll still have to wait a while to eat,” Quentin thought absently, but his face didn’t change, still walking briskly in the right direction. He tried not to think about the reasons for his actions. Raven Brooks showed that he was only a peaceful small town on the surface, so he should be careful and not rush into decisions. Stay with the Petersons, make sure of the situation, and only then make the appropriate decisions. Right now, Quentin wasn’t going to think about anything else other than feeding the hungry boy, himself, and perhaps Theodore when he woke up. This was new task number one. “We’ll find it. If anything happens, I know where we can get more,” Quentin answered Aaron, winking good-naturedly over his shoulder. The kitchen, surprisingly, was quite cozy and clean. The window, curtained with thin tulle, provided enough light to avoid creating the feeling of a gloomy and enclosed space. And the cool pre-dawn breeze entering the room through the slightly open window only intensified the pleasant sensations, helping some tension in the body to subside slightly. Having rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, Quentin still managed to find in them a jar of ancient stew, plum jam, an unpacked pack of pasta and a tea bag, which, after a little inspection, was nevertheless sent to the trash bin. There were also a couple of mint leaves and some plant unknown to Quentin. They were suspended by a rope above the ceiling. Perhaps what was found was quite enough for three to eat. But this was clearly not enough for a long stay, so no matter how much Quentin wanted to, he would still have to make a sortie. Having put the kettle on the stove, as well as a pot of water, Quentin turned to the boy again: “How do you feel about pasta and stew for breakfast?” Aaron shrugged. “It’s good if you can eat it,” he said. The last year has weaned him from being capricious and selective in food. “Eat what you give,” was the motto of the boy, whose life changed dramatically after that unsuccessful game with his sister. Aaron walked into the kitchen with some caution and the first thing he did was raise his head and look around all the corners. My father said that cameras or other devices that capture motion could have been left here. But as far as Aaron could tell, there was nothing like that on display in the kitchen. Apparently, the room did not have any special secrets to keep an eye on. Looking into the cabinet, Aaron saw dead cockroaches and, wincing, closed the door. This kitchen, while nicer looking than the rest of the dusty corners of the museum, could not compete with the kitchen in the Peterson family home. Eh, house… Will he ever see it? Aaron sighed sadly, but immediately shook his head, not wanting to give in to despondency. He opened the window slightly, trying not to touch the tulle, and took a greedy breath of fresh air. He wanted to look outside, but it was too dangerous, since it was morning, and there was a bakery nearby, which was often visited by local townspeople in the mornings. Continuing to cook, Quentin did not forget to cast fleeting, studying glances at the younger Peterson. Despite his father’s strange attitude, the journalist did not see any signs of beatings or other abuse on the boy. Aaron looked depressed, but not too intimidated, not like a person subjected to constant violence. Perhaps Mr. Peterson did not offend him. In one of the jars on the top shelf there were dried onions, as well as salt. It was slightly damp from time to time, but overall still edible. Nearby there was sugar and a couple more spices unknown to the journalist. Deciding not to risk it and not touch them, the man went down to continue brewing tea. Quentin would like to talk to Aaron, but he didn’t know how he could start a dialogue without hurting the child’s delicate psyche. “Do you like donuts?” Having never come up with a safe topic, Quentin decided to follow the already proven path, pouring the pasta into the pan and stirring it with a large spoon. Aaron shuddered and backed away from the window. But this loud voice actually belonged to Quentin, who, listening to his journalistic skills, moved on to questioning. “Donuts?” the boy grinned. “Mrs. Vigor bakes good donuts. Father often steals them through the back door. You won’t blame him for that, will you?” he asked with a frown, thinking that theft, in theory, did not apply to what what a good parent should do. “Father never did this before. But we needed food. And the donuts were tasty, although not particularly healthy. We ate them with wild garlic. Here, in the backyard, there were a couple of bushes growing in the spring.” “That’s good,” Quentin muttered absently. But, having come to his senses, he confusedly explained: “I meant that… Well… You had to eat. It’s good that your father took care of you. Ouch!” Quentin, in his haste, slightly burned himself on the cast-iron barrel of the kettle. Oh, this natural clumsiness! Shaking his burnt palm, Quentin finally managed to control the kettle and managed to brew mint leaves, introducing a partial invigorating fresh mint aroma into the elderly smell of the kitchen. Aaron sniffed. “What does that smell like?” he said warily. For tea — or whatever Quentin was preparing? — it was not very similar. Apparently some kind of herbs. “Are you sure these herbs can be drunk? It doesn’t smell like tea…” “I think it will be delicious,” Quentin said confidently, smiling at the boy’s reaction. After draining the water from the pasta, he added a little sunflower oil, found next to the stove, poured everything into a large cup and poured the stew on top, the jar of which he managed to open only after the third can opener and five spoons. Later it turned out that it was necessary to open the jar using a special iron handle. But Quentin was not upset, because the main thing is the result. Having also made some mint tea, Quentin set everything up on a small kitchen table and invited Aaron to join the meal: “Help yourself, my friend! Bon appetit.” Aaron did not refuse. The smell of food was strong and overpowered the strange herbal aroma, and his stomach had long been asking for something less sugary than Mrs. Vigor’s donuts and muffins. He greedily bit into the pasta, apparently Quentin had undercooked it. But it didn’t matter. It was still the best food Aaron had eaten in the last year (in fact, Peterson Sr.'s cooking was even worse). “Thank you,” remembering the rules of decency from that normal life, he said indistinctly with a mouth full of food, “Tasty.” The boy attacked the food with such greed that the poor journalist’s heart involuntarily sank with pity for this small, unfortunate child. “Poor!” Quentin mentally lamented, not daring to say anything out loud yet. “He probably goes hungry often. I’m should bring him something tasty.” Already mentally drawing up a plan in his head, Quentin smiled good-naturedly at the child and nodded, reciprocating his politeness. Aaron ate a little more and moved away, so as not to develop colic out of habit. “Father will probably have to force it in,” he admitted regretfully. “He won’t eat your food voluntarily, sorry. Too suspicious.” Nick and his cupcakes immediately came to mind. Mrs. Rott baked them a long time ago, when Mia was still alive, and sent her son to take the gift to the neighbors when there was some kind of holiday. Mr. Peterson then behaved like a real pig: he yelled at Nick and kicked him out the door, for which Nick, who had a rather explosive character, knocked on the door again and threw a cupcake right in Theodore’s face when he opened it. Remembering this, Aaron couldn’t help but chuckle with a smile. Father then rushed around the house for a long time, seething with indignation and licking the remains of the cupcake from his mustache, and he and Mia choked with suppressed laughter, hiding behind the railings of the stairs leading to the second floor. “Well, if necessary…” Quentin responded, slightly confused; he had never had to do this before in his journalistic practice. “We should check him to see if his temperature has risen. If you want, wait here. Have some tea…” Aaron winced. Exactly! “He had a fever yesterday,” he muttered. “Someone hung a bucket of paint outside the garage and it got flooded. And as luck would have it, there was no hot water in the shower. My father washed off the paint and then burned all night. It was scary.” He stood up and covered the remaining food with another plate so that the flies would not land on them, because they were still flying around, taking advantage of the warm autumn days. Quentin again felt the usual feeling of guilt. Apparently, his seemingly harmless trick with the can was not very successful after all. Rising to his feet, the man grabbed the penknife he had found from the table. Catching Aaron’s incredulous gaze, he explained: “If need to cut the blanket again.” Aaron tensed involuntarily when Quentin took the knife. In the small journalist’s frail hands, he didn’t look particularly threatening, but the boy still felt insecure. “If father sees you with this thing, he will break the bed, but he will get to you,” he warned, involuntarily taking a step back when Quentin stirred. “He is very distrustful of those who hold something sharp near him.” “Oh, then I won’t show him this,” Quentin smiled. “Did you say he had a fever? It would be worth checking the temperature. I think I saw a first aid kit somewhere in the museum…” Quentin’s big eyes scanned the room once again, trying to remember all the items he had discovered earlier. “A first aid kit?” Aaron asked, tilting his head slightly to the side. “Father keeps it near the fireplace. There, on a shelf, a little to the side. However, I’m not sure that there is another thermometer there. We broke one…” “Woe is my onion!” Quentin shook his head sympathetically, smiling encouragingly at the boy. “Okay, okay. Now let’s see,” he said and headed in the indicated direction. “It’s cool here… Are you feeling well?” Quentin asked carefully, deciding to carefully find out the well-being of the poor child. “After the basement, this is the place,” Aaron noted absentmindedly, following him a little at a distance. A crow cawed especially loudly on the street, and he cringed, looking warily towards the window. Approaching him, Aaron looked through the curtain without touching it, but did not notice anything suspicious. “How are you feeling?” asked Aaron, remembering how his father rammed Quentin into all vertical and horizontal surfaces. “Invigorating!” Quentin noted, quite positively for a man with an aching neck and back. “It’s not for nothing that they say that journalists are indestructible and unsinkable… Hmm. Do you usually sleep up there?” Quentin asked cautiously when he and Aaron walked next to the stairs, leading to the attic. Aaron looked up in surprise, as if he had seen this room for the first time. “No,” he snorted. “This is a special chamber for storing jewelry. Even though there is a bed there, it’s uncomfortable to sleep. My father and I slept where he is now. And I’m upstairs when my father is away. Well, or when I’m behaving badly.” “Mr. Peterson’s fears are probably connected with that sect. Perhaps they are threatening him or his son,” Quentin mentally summed up after carefully analyzing the information received from Aaron. Well, that already explained something to him. But, unfortunately, the further the investigation went, the more confusing it seemed to him. “Here’s the first aid kit!” Quentin announced cheerfully as soon as he and Aaron got to the right place. Predictably, the thermometer was not inside, but there were several packs of painkillers, a blister of sleeping pills, some ancient cough medicines that had expired, bandages, and several boxes of adhesive plaster. The real find was a medicine for colds and flu, modestly hidden under all the wealth of the medicine cabinet. Having placed the treatment box under his arm, Quentin headed towards his “patient”, telling Aaron something positive: “Great! This is exactly what we need.” “I’ll get some water,” Aaron suggested. “He always drinks a lot. He used to drink beer, but after mom…” Aaron was slightly confused, but continued almost calmly. “I’ll go to the kitchen, otherwise he’ll probably wake up soon, and his throat is dry.” “Of course, so much yelling!” Aaron thought involuntarily, remembering his father’s growl. Yes, today he suffered enough! “Okay, come on,” Quentin said quietly and, touching the boy’s shoulder encouragingly, went to his father’s room. Professional competence required him to find out the answers to the questions at any cost, but personal experience and gentle character did not allow him to do this, so Quentin temporarily retreated. There will still be time to “sniff around.”