Reaper's Harvest by Harlan Finchley

Author:Harlan Finchley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Culbin Press
Published: 2024-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

Colin sneered at Vincent. “Who are you today?”

“Today, I’m Professor Vincent, your psychologist, as I was yesterday.”

Colin chose to believe him. “What are you doing today?”

Vincent tapped a hypodermic needle, making sweat break out on Colin’s brow as he remembered another time when someone had carried out that action.

“Today we’re going to do something different,” Vincent said.

Two days had passed since his last interview with the psychologist. Colin was no calmer than the last time he’d been tested, but that hadn’t deterred Vincent. Guards had come for him at dawn and they’d dragged him to the prison surgery.

This time Vincent hadn’t tried to persuade him that the treatment would be in his best interest. Colin flexed his arms and legs, but he could move them for only a few inches. The guards had manacled him securely to a chair, perhaps as a hint of the fate that awaited him if he continued to be obstructive.

“I don’t want any kind of therapy.”

“You want answers,” Vincent said sternly. “So do I.”

The needle closed on Colin’s arm. He tensed and shook himself, but the cold tip still pressed against the crook of his arm. Vincent asked Colin to count so Colin barked out the numbers, hoping to hold out for as long as possible.

By the time he reached five, his mind drifted. His thoughts backtracked. And then he was outside on a hot and dry day. It was late in the summer and he was eight years old again. His parents had bought him to their favorite picnic spot on the outskirts of Boston.

On this day, they had planned to picnic in a quiet area, set far from the crowds. With its short, stubby grass field, occasional oak trees and a stream meandering over large boulders, the place was a peaceful setting so close to a big city.

The warm summer sun baked the parched hard ground. The cracked earth was flaky and pitted. The only people at the picnic site were Colin and his family, even in the middle of the weekend afternoon.

It was a quiet oasis – or at least it was before they arrived. For an hour, Colin wheeled and banked in circles around the car, pretending to be a noisy aircraft.

“Stop playing, Colin,” his mother, Millicent, said. “We’re eating soon.”

Millicent pushed her hair from her eyes and drew a container from the car trunk. Colin heard, but ignored her. He buzzed and whirred as loudly as he could.

“Look at me!” he shouted. “Look at me!”

“Don’t stray too far and mind the water.”

Colin’s mother reached into the trunk again. Whirring loudly, Colin circled from the car and widened his loop. He aimed for an oak tree fifty yards away, set before a group of larger trees on a mound.

As he banked closer, he reduced his screeching, in hope that his parents wouldn’t notice how far he had strayed. He whirred to the tree, his heart beating faster as he waited for them to shout at him to return.

Then he ran around the oak tree, through the dappled light, and banked back to the car.

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