Player walked to the end of the bed to stand in front of her grandfather’s drawing, staring at it. He was motionless as he sipped the drink. She didn’t really understand what he expected to see. He was standing right where the White Rabbit, Sorbacov and, ultimately, the malevolent eyes of the intruder had been. Zyah sighed and began to write down her impressions of the night’s events and then the time before when she’d first felt the presence of the intruder.
“I’m finished.” Zyah put her empty flute on the bedside table.
Player slipped back into bed next to her and handed her his notebook, taking hers in exchange. She read his notes several times, frowning. Shocked. Not comprehending what he put down at first. His handwriting was impeccable. He didn’t scribble, and each letter was precise, flawlessly slanted. No one had such perfect handwriting. It almost looked as if a machine had written the notes rather than a man.
“Player? You think this evil entity is inside my grandfather’s drawing?” She couldn’t keep the quiver from her voice. Even trying to concentrate on his handwriting and wondering how it had gotten so perfect couldn’t prevent the absolute horror from recoiling in every single cell in her body.
She loved her grandfather’s drawing. Every stroke, every line had been drawn with love. He had spent months on that carefully drawn artwork for her grandmother. And the frame? Moving like some ancient scroll? Her father had done the same—taken months of care to create a masterpiece to frame the art for her grandfather’s gift of love for Anat. How could Player think evil could intrude on love? It was impossible. Impossible.
“You believe you saw those eyes staring at us from in front of the drawing?” Player said. As usual, his voice was low. Where her voice had been all emotion, and she was still wanting to leap out of bed and pace or roll over and weep, he was very calm.
“Yes. They had to be. The White Rabbit was there like he always was, standing just over your shoulder. Then he was Sorbacov. I saw Sorbacov much clearer this time. His features. He was blurry and transparent, but I could see what he looked like. And right where his face was, where his eyes were, there was the other one.”
She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering, remembering the way those eyes had looked at them. Too real. As if he could really see them. Identify them. She suddenly gasped. “Player. You didn’t have a shirt on. You have a Torpedo Ink tattoo on your back. It’s too large for anyone not to see it. He saw you and saw me. When you kissed me, he saw your back and the Torpedo Ink tattoo.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
Why did he have to be so pragmatic about it, as if it didn’t matter at all? It mattered. If that man was real and he was looking for Player, he now had a way to find him.
“His eyes were in the center of the drawing, Zyah, looking right at us. From inside the drawing. Think about it. Picture it in your mind.” Again, his voice was very calm.
She shook her head, rejecting the idea. “You don’t understand about that drawing, Player. Nothing evil could ever get inside anything created with such love. I just won’t believe that. My grandfather loved Anat. It was in every single thing he did for and with her. My father loved my mother that same way. The person looking at us isn’t capable of anything close to love, at least I don’t believe he is.”
“Have you ever really examined that drawing?”
She frowned at him. “What is that supposed to mean? It’s been in my life always. It’s hung in my room since I was a little girl. I begged Mama Anat for it. I know every line almost by heart. I think I could reproduce it, as well as the frame.”
“Have you studied it from various angles?”
“I’ve looked at it from every angle.” But had she? Growing up, she had just admired the drawing on her wall. Then she’d been at school and then off to college and overseas to her job. Since coming home, she’d spent more time with the artwork, but she hadn’t really taken the time to study it from every angle. What was she expected to see?
“Do you know what anamorphosis art is?”
“I think so. The artist distorts the drawing or painting in some way, and the viewer uses a mirror or some device to see the true picture. Right?” She looked at her grandfather’s very precise drawing. “But there’s no distortion.”
“My mind sees in patterns.” For the first time he hesitated.
“We have to discuss this, even if you think it’s going to upset me, Player.” She knew she was going to be upset no matter what. That clarifying drink, so refreshing, had cleared her mind enough to give her the strength to continue. She needed to do this. It had to be done. She and Player had to figure it out once and for all in order to keep Anat safe as well as Player. Everyone, for that matter. She pressed her hand to her churning stomach. She loved her grandfather’s picture. Had the eyes been staring at them from inside the picture? Was that even possible? No matter how terrible, they had to get at the truth.
Zyah tried to do what Player said and go back and pull the details out of her head—not what she wanted to see but what she’d really seen. Player covered her hand, and she realized she was gripping her thigh so hard her fingers were digging into her skin as she tried to recall the details. She’d been afraid the moment she saw the White Rabbit, even when she was aware she hadn’t heard the ticking of the bomb. She could see the boy was no longer at the bench, but a man was bent over it, working. She would recognize him anywhere with his wild hair and distinctive tattoo.
The White Rabbit peered over his left shoulder, tapping his foot impatiently and staring down at his gold pocket watch. She tore her gaze from the watch to look above him. The rabbit’s head was centered exactly in her grandfather’s drawing, but in front of it. Relief flooded her. The White Rabbit began to fade, and there was the rather handsome older man looking a bit like the devil with his silver-streaked hair and beard, standing where the rabbit had been. Sorbacov wasn’t as distinct as the white-furred creature. Much more blurred, even fully transparent in spots, his head in the exact spot the White Rabbit’s had been, in the center of the drawing, but in front of it.
Zyah took a deep breath, filling her lungs with Player, before turning her gaze inward again. Instinctively, she tightened her fingers around Player’s. He immediately brought her fingertips to his mouth and kissed them before pressing her palm to his thigh and just holding her hand there tightly. Those eyes staring so malevolently had really scared her, and conjuring them up again was terrifying, but they had to know. She had to know she was right.
She forced herself to look at Sorbacov, his face. His eyes. He was staring down at Player so gleefully. Twice he switched his gaze to his watch. He was a man who loved power over all things. He rode on the waves of fear pouring off the children when he visited the “school” he’d created for his chosen victims. His eyes showed how depraved he was. Still, Zyah refused to turn away. She wanted to see that moment when he began to fade and the other took his place. The transformation was entirely unexpected.
Zyah swallowed and even leaned toward the apparition, even though it was all taking place in her mind, not in the bedroom. She saw Sorbacov fade even more, his facial features so thin she could see her grandfather’s drawing distinctly behind him. The lines were etched into her memory, so she knew them and filled them in around his head, like a child’s Etch A Sketch.