Genesis. Volume 2

October 2, 1986. Brookfield. The Walkers' house. Evening. Arthur came home after dark. Lisa was already sitting in the kitchen, her sketchbook open in front of her. Their mother was clattering lids by the stove; their father was reading the newspaper in the living room—the rustle of pages and the creak of his armchair drifted through like distant noise. "Well, had your fill of wandering?" Sofia asked without turning around. Her voice was deliberately even, too even—Arthur caught it, that edge of tension that surfaced when she wanted to ask something important but held back. "Yes, Mom." "What good does it do? You still won't tell us anything." Arthur said nothing. Lisa looked up from her sketchbook and met her brother's eyes. "We're going to Detroit. In three days." Sofia went still. Slowly, she turned from the stove. In the living room, the rustling of the newspaper stopped. "Why?" Their mother wiped her hands on her apron. "A school exchange," Arthur cut in. "An art competition. Lisa was invited. I'm going with her as a chaperone." "To Detroit?" Mark appeared in the doorway, his newspaper rolled into a tube. "And Max is going with you?" "Yes." "And Jenny and Emma?" Arthur understood: their father had already called the other parents, or they'd called him. He tried to fabricate another lie, but Lisa beat him to it. "We're all going. It's a group trip. That's how it works." Mark pursed his lips, glanced at his wife. Sofia set the ladle down in the sink, wiped her hands on her apron—slowly now, as if stalling for time—and sat down across from the children. "You talked to Grandma Jenny." She wasn't asking; she was stating. "I saw you stop by her place yesterday, Arthur. Why?" "We borrowed the keys to her basement. It's a convenient meeting spot." "You're lying." Sofia said it almost in a whisper. "I don't know what you're looking for or who you're hiding from, but I can see that you don't even remember yourselves. You"—she looked at Arthur—"get up at night and stand by the window. You"—her gaze shifted to Lisa—"draw faces I don't recognize. And today Max showed up with a knife in his pocket. His mother called me, in tears." Arthur couldn't find a response. Lisa sat silent, staring at the table. A heavy quiet settled over the room; only the clock on the wall ticked loudly, like a metronome. "We don't want to lose you." Mark stepped forward and stopped behind Sofia. He spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. "You're the most precious thing we have. If Detroit is dangerous—don't go. We don't want to have to search for you in hospitals later… or worse." "Dad…" "Let me finish." Mark raised his palm. "I don't know what happened to Jack. Nobody does. The police closed the case. But you—you know something. And you went to that mansion. I found a map in the garage with dots on it. Red dots. Explain that to me." Arthur froze. Tell the truth? That they'd sealed an ancient entity in the guise of a clown, that Jack had sacrificed himself, that others were awakening now, that the map marked the locations of monsters? Their mother would faint; their father would call in psychiatrists. But there was no lie left to tell. "We're going to Detroit because there's a boy there." Arthur forced himself to hold his father's gaze. "He saw the same thing we did. We want to help. And we need to go to Chicago, then New York, then London. It's not an art competition. It's… something else." Sofia covered her face with her hands. Mark put a hand on her shoulder, but he didn't look away from his son. "Something else—is it dangerous?" "Yes." "Connected to children going missing?" "Yes." "To the clown?" Arthur nodded. Sofia lifted her head. Her eyes were red but dry. "I don't want you to go. But I have a feeling I won't be able to stop you." She took a breath. "So promise me: you'll call every day. And if anything goes wrong—you'll come straight back." "We promise," Lisa said, her voice soft but firm. "And one more thing." Mark swept his gaze over both of them. "We won't hold you back. But know this: if you don't come back, I'll get in the car and come looking for you myself. And I'll bring the police. And everyone I can." "We'll come back." Arthur said it looking at both of them. "All of us." Their mother stood up and hugged him—first Arthur, then Lisa. She smelled of coffee and exhaustion. Their father gave a silent nod and went back to the living room. Later, after Sofia and Mark had gone to bed, Arthur's door creaked open. Lisa slipped in, a pencil in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other. "I drew him." She laid the paper on his bed. "The one from Chicago. Not the Feaster. The one who's going to get in our way." Arthur held the drawing up to the lamp. A guy about their age—clean-cut features, an expensive jacket, slicked-back hair. Beneath it, a caption: "Christian." "How do you know the name?" "Claire sent a letter this evening while you were out. She wrote about some Christian—the son of the Palace Theater's owner. He gets in everyone's way, thinks he's in charge. Claire says to be careful with him when we get there." Arthur turned the drawing over in his fingers. "Pretty face. That's the kind he looks for." "Who?" "The Maestro." He recalled the notes. "That's what they call him. The Feaster from the theater." Lisa nodded. "Christian thinks he's untouchable. He's just a future exhibit." She took the drawing from his fingers and tucked it into her sketchbook. "Good night." "Good night." Lisa left. Arthur was alone. He looked out the window—a red balloon was hanging there again. He didn't bother taking it down. He just turned away and lay down. He dreamed of a theater. Empty seats, a stage on fire, and a man in a silk cloak conducting an invisible orchestra. In the orchestra pit sat figures with white faces—no eyes, no mouths—and they clapped. In time.