Satan's Mirror (2 page)

“Over here,” she told Dan. “I think it went— Oh, no. Where did it go?” She spun about, searching the trees.

Dan trotted up behind her. “Gave us the slip?”

“We can’t lose it now. We have no story. Did you get any shots?”

“Are you kidding?” he asked, gasping and holding his side.

Emily laughed. “Well, I thought that since you are a cameraman and we are on assignment—”

Dan screwed up his face and gave a tremendous sneeze. “Sorry. Must be roses around here.”

“What did you say?”

“Roses. I’m allergic.”

Grinning, she put her hands on his shoulders and turned him to face the path. “Okay, bloodhound. Lead me.”

“No way. I run from gardens.”

“Roses don’t usually grow wild in the woods,” she said, “and the Post Office didn’t list a residence out this far, remember?”

“So now our Bat Boy has a green thumb.” Sniffling and rubbing his nose, he left the path.

Emily followed him into the brush. Twigs and dry grass crunched beneath her feet. “Are you sure we’re going in the right direction?”

Dan sneezed again. “Trust me.”

He stopped, and she bumped into his back. Over his shoulder, she saw a sunny, green yard. It was so flat and precise it looked cut out of the forest.

“Lovely.” She stepped into the clearing.

In reply, Dan sneezed three times straight. His eyes streamed.

She could see why. The yard held thousands of blooms. Roses grew up trellises and cascaded from birdbaths. They lined a winding walkway of garden stones. A whitewashed park bench sat beneath an arch of flowers as if cued for a wedding.

Emily strolled over the lush grass. She noticed a small house just as a woman stormed out a back door brandishing a broomstick. “Get out! This is private property!” The woman stopped dead. “Glory be. Are you Emily Goodman?”

Emily was used to being recognized. She stepped forward. “Yes, I’m Emily. This is my co-worker, Dan Hart. We were following—”

“Sakes alive, I’m all a flutter,” said the woman, fanning her face with stubby fingers. “I never miss a show. When Sheldon told me he saw people in the woods—”

“Sheldon?”

“My son. He doesn’t cozy to people much. Mostly they throw rocks at him and call him names.”

“Like Bat Boy?”

The woman glanced about as if casting for words. Before she could speak, Dan gave a loud sneeze and blew his nose with a honk. Both women looked at him.

“Nice garden,” he murmured, sounding nasal.

“It’s my Sheldon’s,” the woman said. “He has a lot of nervous energy. I thought tending flowers might be calming. He started with that little patch behind the house, but over the years his garden has become a show piece.”

“I’d like to meet Sheldon,” said Emily. At the woman’s frown, she added, “I hope to start my own garden someday. Maybe he could give me some pointers.”

“Well, y-yes. I suppose that would be all right.” She stammered like it never occurred to her they might ask to see him. “Come in. The least I can do is to offer you something to drink.”

“Thank you.” Emily grinned, feeling a familiar dance of butterflies in her chest. She was about to break the story wide open—a story about a gardener, not a bat. This was what made her job worthwhile.

She followed Sheldon’s mother toward a back porch. Weathered, gray shingles paneled the house. The wood was warped and cracked, and looked like it had never seen a coat of paint. In contrast, fresh whitewash covered the porch and stairs. Baskets of peach-colored moss roses hung from the railing.

Dan leaned toward Emily as they walked. “You live in a row home. Where are you planning to grow a garden?”

“If you must know,” she whispered in mock offense, “I thought I might grow flowers on my grandmother’s grave. Grandpa is having trouble keeping up.”

Dan nodded then blew his nose again. Emily climbed the wooden steps.

“Imagine. Emily Goodman in my kitchen.” The woman tittered, holding the door open. “Make yourselves at home.”

Emily glanced about a cheerful, yellow kitchen. Checkered curtains framed the open window. A round-cornered refrigerator rattled in the corner. Emily thought it might be an antique. She sat at an old-fashioned metal table with a silver-flecked Formica tabletop and pulled a notebook from her bag. “Do you mind if I take notes?”

“Of course not.” The woman drew cookies from a pig-shaped cookie jar. “Do you want lemonade or would you rather coffee?”

“Umm, coffee sounds good,” Emily said.

“Coffee for you, too, Mr. Hart?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Dan set his equipment on the table, withdrawing his favorite Olympus digital camera. “May I take your picture?”

“Oh,” she said, blushing and patting her hair.

She wore her hair in a high ponytail tied with a blue bow. Her shirtwaist dress was also blue. She seemed a well-preserved fifty-plus, Emily thought and was suddenly reminded of her grandmother.

Emily opened her book. “What is your full name?”

“Anna Kraft.” She set a flame beneath a percolator. After a moment, she carried the plate of cookies to the table.

Dan leapt up, scraping his chair. “Here, ma’am.”

“No, no, you sit. We don’t get much call for extra seats around here.”

“There’s just the two of you?” Emily asked. “No Mr. Kraft?”

Anna laughed. “My man ran out right after he got a good look at his son. Ain’t seen him since.”

“I know what that’s like.” Emily nodded. “My husband left when I told him I was pregnant. When I say left, I mean out of the country. Turned out he wasn’t the responsible type.”

“Well, good riddance, I say. We can get along without them.”

Emily smiled. She listened to the sound of percolating coffee. “Tell me about Sheldon.”

“He’s not part bat, I can promise you that. He was a breech birth is all. Poor child. His spine got so twisted up his legs never grew. And his face was kind of pulled.” She made upward movements with her hands.

“How old is he?”

Anna looked away, her voice turning husky. “Twenty-five.”

“The farmers near here claim he’s killed their cows.”

“That’s ridiculous.” She poured coffee into three cups. “He don’t never go out except to get the mail from the box out on the main road. No. Sheldon’s a good boy. So smart. Home-schooled, of course. I taught him the basics best I could, but he always wanted to know more. ‘How does this work?’ he’d say. ‘What happens to that?’ So when he got a little older he studied by mail. Sugar? Fresh cream?”

“Cream, please.” Emily accepted the steaming cup. “You said he took mail order courses. What did he study?”

“All sorts of things. He has a degree as a television repairman and as a legal assistant. But it wasn’t until I bought him his first computer that he found his life’s calling. It opened the whole world to him.”

“I imagine so. Computers have changed the lives of many disabled people.” Emily sipped her coffee. “Have you tried surgery to correct his spine?”

“He was turned down. Not a good candidate.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” She took another sip and set down her cup. “It’s so nice here. You have a lovely home.”

“Thank you. It’s not much, but it suits us fine.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, how do you support yourselves living way out here on your own?”

“I got a large settlement from the hospital,” Anna said, “which I put into a trust fund for Sheldon. With the stock market being what it is, he’s got himself a nice nest egg. We don’t need to touch it much, though. As I said, my son’s found his calling in computers. He’s started a computer debugging business that he runs from his web page. People post their computer problems, and for a fee he explains how to fix them.”

“Ingenious,” Dan blurted. “You’ll have to give me his website.”

Emily glanced at him, silently chastising him for the interruption. “Your son sounds brilliant. May we meet him now?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Anna became flustered. “As I said, we don’t get many visitors. But he did lead you here instead of getting you lost in the woods.”

“At the very least, my story can drive more traffic to his website,” Emily said.

Anna sighed. “All right. He’s upstairs in his workroom.”

Emily set her cup in the sink and followed her through a sparse yet comfortable living room. A single, overstuffed couch faced a television. An aquarium of bright tropical fish bubbled and hummed beneath a beautiful painting of trees and sunlight.

“Sheldon painted that,” Anna said over her shoulder.

“Be sure to get it,” Emily whispered without looking at Dan. She knew he’d have his digital camcorder out, recording the room.

Framed certificates lined the stairwell, and as Emily climbed, she read them: Presented to Sheldon Kraft for outstanding achievement in woodwork, automobile mechanic certification, physical therapist degree, septic tank conditioning. There was even an award in journalism, she noted with a smile. Either Sheldon was a true genius or these mail-order courses were way too simple.

She reached the landing and stood behind Anna who was looking flustered once more.

“Sheldon?” Anna knocked at a door. “Emily Goodman is here wanting to speak with you. She’s the lady from TV. You know she’ll be fair.”

There was no answer.

Anna glanced at Emily as if frightened, then said, “We’re coming in.” She opened the door and stepped inside.

Compared to the rest of the house, this room was in disarray. Tables lined all four walls. They held computer monitors, cables, and green circuit boards along with scattered pliers and screwdrivers. In the center of the room, nearly hidden by a stack of boxes, was a paper-strewn desk. Behind the desk sat Sheldon. He held so still, Emily didn’t notice him at first.

His face seemed too high, as if it sat atop his head. A double cleft palate split his mouth and nose; his ears were long and pointed.

He turned his head, watching her—his eyes were spaced so widely apart, he could see out of only one eye at a time. He slid his chair back from the desk, hopped to the floor and walked toward her on his knuckles. His shoulders were thick and muscular, his arms overlong. He wore a large, charcoal gray sweatshirt that gave him the appearance of wings. His legs, or what Emily could see of them, were shrunken, curled, and useless.

The Bat Boy. Another myth exposed. She’d have those farmers eating their words.

TWO

“He’s intelligent,” Emily said to her managing editor, Ross Devine, as they stood in his New York office. “He has this quirky sense of humor.”

“Is that so?” Ross thumbed through the photos of Sheldon Kraft. “Maybe we should change his nickname from Bat Boy to Dream Boy.”

She slapped his arm, smiling. “Don’t get cute.”

“I’m not joking, Em. You’ve painted this kid with a pretty rosy spotlight. You’re supposed to be impartial.”

“I investigated a Bat Boy who was accused of terrorizing a community and sucking the blood of cows. As far as those allegations go, Sheldon is innocent.”

“Just once I wish you’d find a real bogeyman.”

She laughed. “No you don’t.”

“You’re right.” He slid the photographs into an envelope. “Have you turned in your expenses?”

“I was about to. I also want to stop by editing and check on Dan’s video.”

“I’m the editor around here,” Ross said, smiling. “You’re always pushing.”

“That’s because you have the cushy job.”

“You wouldn’t like it,” he said, sitting behind his desk. “Go on home. Tell April I said hello.”

She grinned. “If you insist.”

He called to her as she reached the office door. “It’s a good piece, Em. Well done.”

“Thanks. I just hope we can quell the sightseers and give the man his dignity.”

“Me, too. Goodnight.”

Emily stopped at her office-slash-dressing room, chuckling at a question her daughter once posed about whether she was a reporter or a TV star. She picked up her purse and a copy of her expenses and headed to Accounting.

“Here you are, Marge.” Emily placed the report on the elderly woman’s desk.

Marge blinked, her watery eyes magnified by oversized glasses. Wisps of white hair stirred around her face. Marge always complained she was cold. The multitude of space heaters she hid around the room warred with the air conditioner, making it seem almost breezy. Emily often teased that between the space heaters and the papers, the Accounting Department was a fire hazard.

“All right, honey,” Marge said. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks. See you later.”

With her purse over her shoulder, Emily hurried toward the lobby. Many of the offices were already dark, but the lobby was bright and pleasant. She waved at the security guard sitting behind the reception desk. “Hello, Frank.”

“Evening, Miss Goodman. How are you tonight?”

“Tired.” She sighed. “I’ll be glad to get home, put my feet up.”

“I doubt you’ll have time with that little one of yours.” Frank laughed.

“How’s your family? Kids still have the flu?”

“Nah, they’re fine. Back to school.”

“That’s good.” Emily smiled. “Can you call a cab for me?”

“My pleasure.” He turned his attention to the desk.

A short time later, a yellow cab pulled up.

“Thanks, Frank,” she said. “Have a nice night.”

“You, too, Miss Goodman.” He locked the door behind her.

Emily settled in the cab’s back seat. It stank of mildew and citrus air freshener. She gazed out the window at a waning sunset and brightening storefronts. It felt good to be home.

But as she thought that, she recalled Sheldon’s roses and remembered Dan asking where she would put a garden.

Emily lived in a brownstone—no real yard, one spindly tree out front. She didn’t hate it there—it was close to the studio and the neighbors were nice. But she often wondered if it was the best place to raise a child. As a result, she took April on weekend outings and spent as much time as she could on Grandfather’s farm.

When she was young, Emily spent every summer with her grandparents. That was where she found her love of archery. She wished her daughter could visit there more often.

The cab stopped at her house. She gave the driver a smile and a generous tip. She always tipped well—Lord knows service employees made little enough. And she found her reputation as a healthy tipper brought better service.