“I don’t think we have to check them all. Whoever she visits must be near that bench. We start at the graves near there and branch out until we find what we’re looking for.”
For the next three hours, we did exactly that, moving from stone to stone, row to row. We found nothing.
August 8, 1987
Eleven Years Old
Log 08/08/1987—
Subject “D” restless.
Audio/video recording.
“Is there anybody there?”
“What do we do? Should we answer him?”
“Naw, he’ll pipe down in a few minutes. Just ignore him.”
“I had a bad dream. Can you turn on the lights?”
“Should we do it?”
“I’m not gonna do it—he’s on a schedule. Ignore him. It’s your move.”
“I can’t concentrate with the kid jabbering in there. He creeps me out.”
“I’ve got checkmate in two more moves anyway.”
“No you don’t, not after I take your…oh, shit. I’m an idiot.”
“Yep.”
“Your name’s Carl, right? If you can’t turn on the lights, can you at least talk to me until I fall back asleep, Carl?”
“Fuck! How does he know my name?”
“Calm down.”
“Screw you.”
“I don’t want to hear my name coming out of his mouth. Not now, not ever.”
“He can’t hurt you, not with the audio delay.”
“Can’t we just switch him off? Mute him?”
“Then it won’t record. Something important gets missed, and we’re both looking for new employment.”
“You’d be all over that switch if he said your name.”
“Well, let’s just hope he fixates on you, then.”
“Has he ever been outside his box?”
“Not since I’ve been here.”
“When did you start? ’81?”
