He glanced almost furtively at me, then returned his gaze at once to the drawing paper.

"Jake, will you draw something especially for me? Will you draw the face of the Neverwas, the way he looked in the long ago?

"Can't," he said.

"I'm pretty sure you have a photographic memory. That means you remember everything you see, in great detail, even from long before the ocean and the bell and the floating away." I glanced at the wall with the many portraits of his mother. "Like your mother's face. Am I right, Jake? Do you remember everything from long ago as clear as if you just saw it an hour ago?"

He said, "It hurts."

"What hurts, Jake?"

"All of it, so clear."

"I'll bet it does. I know it does. My girl has been gone sixteen months, and I see her clearer every day."

He drew, and I waited.

Then I said, "Do you know how old you were that time in the hospital?"

"Seven. I was seven."

"So will you draw me the face of the Neverwas, from that time in the hospital when you were seven?"

"Can't. My eyes was funny then. Like a window with the rain and nothing looks right through it."

"Your vision was blurred that day?"

"Blurred."

"From the sickness, you mean." My hope deflated. "I guess it might have been blurred."

I turned back one tablet page to the second drawing of the bone kaleidoscope at the window.

"How often have you seen this thing, Jake?"

"More than one thing. Different ones."

"How often have they been at the window?"

"Three times."

"Just three? When?"

"Two times yesterday. Then when I woke from the sleep."

"When you woke up this morning?"

"Yeah."

"I've seen them, too," I told him. "I can't figure out what they are. What do you think they are, Jake?"

"The dogs of the Neverwas," he said without hesitation. "I'm not scared of them."

"Dogs, huh? I don't see dogs."

"Not dogs but like dogs," he explained. "Like really bad dogs, he teaches to kill, and he sends them, and they kill."

"Attack dogs," I said.

"I'm not scared, and I won't be."

"You're a very brave young man, Jacob Calvino."

"She said… she said don't be scared, we wasn't born to be all the time scared, we was born happy, babies laugh at everything, we was born happy and to make a better world."

"I wish I'd known your mother."

"She said everyone… everyone, if he's rich or he's poor, if he's somebody big or nobody at all-everyone has a grace." A look of peace came over his embattled face when he said the word grace. "You know what a grace is?"

"Yes."

"A grace is a thing you get from God, you use it to make a better world, or not use it, you have to choose."

"Like your art," I said. "Like your beautiful drawings."

He said, "Like your pancakes."

"Ah, you know I made those pancakes, huh?"

"Those pancakes, that's a grace."

"Thank you, Jake. That's very kind of you." I closed the second tablet and got up from my chair. "I have to go now, but I'd like to come back, if that's all right."

"All right."

"Are you going to be okay?"

"All right, okay," he assured me.

I went to his side of the table, put a hand on his shoulder, and studied the drawing from his perspective.

He was a superb Tenderer, but he wasn't just that. He understood the qualities of light, the fact of light even in shadow, the beauty of light and the need for it.

At the window, though the winter twilight lay a few hours away, most of the light had been choked out of the blizzard-throttled sky. Already the day had come to dusk.

Earlier, Jacob had warned me that the dark would come with the dark. Maybe we couldn't expect that death would wait for full night. Maybe the gloom of this false dusk was dark enough.

CHAPTER 44

OUTSIDE ROOM 14, AFTER I LEFT JACOB WITH the promise to return, Rodion Romanovich said, "Mr. Thomas, your questioning of that young man-it was not done as I would have done it."

"Yes, sir, but the nuns have an absolute rule against ripping out fingernails with pliers."

"Well, even nuns are not right about everything. What I was about to say, however, is that you drew him out as well as anyone could have done. I am impressed."

"I don't know, sir. I'm circling close to it, but I'm not there yet. He has the key. I was sent to him earlier in the day because he has the key."

"Sent to him by whom?"

"By someone dead who tried to help me through Justine."

"Through the drowned girl you mentioned earlier, the one who was dead and then revived."

"Yes, sir."

"I was right about you," Romanovich said. "Complex, complicated, even intricate."

"But innocuous," I assured him.

Unaware that she walked through a cluster of bodachs, scattering them, Sister Angela came to us.

She started to speak, and I zipped my lips again. Her periwinkle blues narrowed, for although she understood about bodachs, she wasn't used to being told to shut up.

When the malign spirits had vanished into various rooms, I said, "Ma'am, I'm hoping you can help me. Jacob here-what do you know about his father?"

"His father? Nothing."

"I thought you had backgrounds on all the kids."

"We do. But Jacob's mother was never married."

"Jenny Calvino. So that's a maiden-not a married-name."

"Yes. Before she died of cancer, she arranged for Jacob to be admitted to another church home."

"Twelve years ago."

"Yes. She had no family to take him, and on the forms, where the father's name was requested, I'm sad to say, she wrote unknown."

I said, "I never met the lady, but from even what little I know about her, I can't believe she was so promiscuous that she wouldn't know."

"It's a world of sorrow, Oddie, because we make it so."

"I've learned some things from Jacob. He was very ill when he was seven, wasn't he?"

She nodded. "It's in his medical records. I'm not sure exactly, but I think… some kind of blood infection. He almost died."

"From things Jacob has said, I believe Jenny called his father to the hospital. It wasn't a warm and fuzzy family reunion. But this name-it may be the key to everything."

"Jacob doesn't know the name?"

"I don't think his mother ever told him. However, I believe Mr. Romanovich knows it."

Surprised, Sister Angela said, "Do you know it, Mr. Romanovich?"

"If he knows it," I said, "he won't tell you."

She frowned. "Why won't you tell me, Mr. Romanovich?"

"Because," I explained, "he's not in the business of giving out information. Just the opposite."

"But, Mr. Romanovich," said Sister Angela, "surely dispensing information is a fundamental part of a librarian's job."

"He is not," I said, "a librarian. He will claim to be, but if you press the point, all you'll get out of him is a lot more about Indianapolis than you need to know."

"There is no harm," Romanovich said, "in acquiring exhaustive knowledge about my beloved Indianapolis. And the truth is, you also know the name."

Again surprised, Sister Angela turned to me. "Do you know the name of Jacob's father, Oddie?"

"He suspects it," said Romanovich, "but is reluctant to believe what he suspects."

"Is that true, Oddie? Why are you reluctant to believe?"

"Because Mr. Thomas admires the man he suspects. And because if his suspicions are correct, he may be up against a power with which he cannot reckon."

Sister Angela said, "Oddie, is there any power with which you cannot reckon?"

"Oh, it's a long list, ma'am. The thing is-I need to be sure I'm right about the name. And I have to understand his motivation, which I don't yet, not fully. It might be dangerous to approach him without full understanding."

Turning to the Russian, Sister Angela said, "Surely, sir, if you can share with Oddie the name and motivation of this man, you will do so to protect the children."