“You know what.”
Lucy threw his hands up. “I’m just trying to build anticipation. Expect the unexpected! You told me that life is meant to surprise you. I’m trying to surprise him.”
“I think you’re setting yourself up for nothing but disappointment.”
Lucy’s eyes narrowed. “And whose fault is that? If you’d have listened to my decorating ideas, there would be no room for disappointment. There would only be joy.” He glanced at Linus. “Well, for me.”
Mr. Parnassus spread his hands in a placating gesture. “I don’t think having severed human heads is conducive to a good night’s sleep or the health and sanity of Mr. Baker, even if they were to be made of papier-mâché.”
“Severed heads?” Linus asked in a strangled voice.
Lucy sighed. “Just representations of my enemies. The Pope. Evangelicals who attend megachurches. You know, like normal people have.”
Linus didn’t think Lucy quite had the grasp of what was normal, but he managed to keep that to himself. “So, no heads?”
“None,” Lucy said with a scowl. “Not even the skull of an animal from the woods that I didn’t kill and just found.” He shot a glare at Mr. Parnassus.
“What did I say about animals?” Mr. Parnassus said.
Lucy stomped toward a closed door near the chairs. “I’m not supposed to kill them because only serial killers do that, and if they’re already dead, I can’t play with the remains because I’ll smell bad.”
“And?”
“And it’s wrong.”
“Let’s lead with that next time,” Mr. Parnassus said. “It might sound more humane.”
“Stifling my creativity,” Lucy muttered. He put his hand on the doorknob and looked over at Linus. His disgruntled expression disappeared, and that syrupy-sweet smile returned that caused chills to run down Linus’s spine. “Are you coming, Mr. Baker?”
Linus tried to make his feet move, but they remained firmly rooted near the bedroom door. “Is Mr. Parnassus joining us?” he asked.
Mr. Parnassus shook his head. “I’ll let him give you the tour, as the other children did.” He paused. Then, “I’m still working on Sal.”
“Great,” Linus said weakly. “That’s … that’s fine.”
“Why are you sweating?” Lucy asked, smile widening. “Something wrong, Mr. Baker?”
“No, no,” Linus said. “Just … a little overwarm, is all. Temperate climate, you know. Not used to it back in the city.”
“Oh, of course,” Lucy said. “That must be it. Come here, Mr. Baker. I have something to show you.”
Linus swallowed thickly. He told himself he was being foolish, that Mr. Parnassus was right there, and Lucy wouldn’t dare do anything untoward in his presence.
The problem with that was Linus’s brain chose that exact moment to wonder if there had ever been another caseworker to visit the island before, and what became of them. There had to have been, right? He can’t have been the first. Why, the idea was preposterous.
And if there had been others before him, what had become of them? Had they too entered Lucy’s room, only to never be seen again? Would Linus follow Lucy through the door to find the carcasses of his predecessors nailed to the ceiling above the bed? Linus certainly could be firm when he needed to be, but he did have a weak constitution, and the sight of blood tended to cause him to feel woozy. He didn’t know what would happen if he had to see intestines strewn about like wet decorative garlands.
He glanced at Mr. Parnassus, who nodded encouragingly. It did not soothe Linus in the slightest. For all he knew, Mr. Parnassus was just as evil as Lucy, brightly colored socks and wonderful smile be damned.
He nearly tripped at wonderful smile.
He pushed it away.
He could do this.
He could do this.
It was just a child.
He fixed a pleasant look on his face (barely above a grimace) and said, “I would be delighted to see your room, Lucy. I do hope it’s tidy. A disheveled room is the sign of a disheveled mind. It’s best to keep things clean when possible.”
Lucy’s eyes danced. “Is that right, Mr. Baker? Well, let’s see what my mind is like, then.”
Linus was sure this was one of the stressors his physician had warned him of. There was nothing he could do about that now.
He stopped next to Lucy.
He looked down at him.
Lucy grinned. Linus thought he had more teeth than was humanly possible.
He turned the doorknob.
He pushed open the door.
It creaked on its hinges and—
Revealed a small space with a twin bed against one wall, the comforter plaid, the pillowcase white. There was room enough for a bureau, but not much else. Atop the bureau sat a collection of shiny rocks shot with veins of quartz.
On the walls were vinyl records, each hung on a pushpin through the hole in its middle. There was Little Richard, the Big Bopper, Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers, Ritchie Valens, and Buddy Holly. In fact, there were more Buddy Holly records than any other.
Linus was startled at the sight of them. He recognized most of the records, because he had them back in the city at his own home. Many nights had been spent listening to “Peggy Sue” and “That’ll Be the Day” and “Chantilly Lace.”
But aside from Little Richard and Frankie Lymon, they all had something else in common. It was slightly morbid, when he thought about it. But it made sense.
He hadn’t even noticed Lucy had closed the door behind them. “The day the music died,” Lucy said.
Linus spun around, heart tripping all over itself. Lucy stood at the door, back pressed against it. “What?”
He waved a hand toward the records. “Buddy Holly and Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper.”
“A plane crash,” Linus said quietly.
Lucy nodded and pushed himself off the door. “Ritchie and Bopper weren’t even supposed to be on the plane, did you know that?”
He did. He said, “I think so.”
“Bopper was sick and took someone else’s seat.”
Waylon Jennings, though Linus kept that to himself.
“And Ritchie won his seat in a coin toss. Buddy didn’t want to be stuck in a bus because it was cold, and they had to go to Montana.” Lucy reached up and touched “Chantilly Lace.” He looked almost reverent. “The pilot wasn’t given the correct weather information, and the plane didn’t have the proper instruments needed to fly. Weird, right?” He smiled at Linus. “I like music that makes me happy. And I like death. It’s strange how people can mix the two. They all died by chance, and then people sang about them after. I like those songs, but not as much as the ones sung by dead people.”
Linus coughed roughly. “I—I like music too. I have some of these records at my house.”
Lucy perked up at that. “Dead people music?”
He shrugged. “I … guess? The older the music, the more likely the singer is dead.”
“Yeah,” Lucy breathed. His eyes begin to tinge with red. “That’s true. Death is wonderful to music. It makes the singers sound like ghosts.”
Linus thought it was probably a good time to change the subject to something less morbid. “I like your room.”