So many questions. So many things that he did not understand.
If he does not answer the questions in his head he will go mad. But he cannot answer them. He cannot even ask them.
Moe had been afraid, and he had left his den when she started throwing things at him. Where could he go now? Who could help him answer the questions?
But he did not know where to find Maribelle.
Peach Tree Estates, his mind says. 1411 Forbush Road. Apartment 22-C. Maribelle had told him these things once. “On the north side,” she had said. He knows north, but he also knows that this place, Atlanta, is very large. Finding Maribelle here will not be easy.
Perhaps he should not have left the other place. The laboratory. At least there he got to see Maribelle, talk to her.
No. The cage. He had hated being locked in the cage. Hated it more than anything he had ever known, save for Amman Natarajan, the man who also kept him in a cage, and had killed Joseph. The thoughts of the cage and of Natarajan make him angry. The long hairs along his neck and shoulders stand rigid.
He must move. He cannot stay here. When the rain stops the daylight people will come out and they will find him. They will bring guns and kill him, or shoot him with the darts that make him sleep, and when he wakes he will be back in the cage.
He thinks about Maribelle. She used to bring him things when he was in the cage. Books and magazines. She had introduced him to strange music. She had brought in a CD player and some discs and played music for him. Before that he had only heard the music made by the Warumbi, heard it from a distance. He had liked the music Maribelle brought. Most of it. Her favorite was someone called Jimmy Buffett. She had played this music more than the rest. One of Jimmy Buffett’s songs had been about a man in a cage. That man in the song did not like cages either.
Thunder fills the air. The storm is closer. Soon it will pass. Then the rain will stop and the hunters will come.
I am in a cage again, he thinks. Only this one has no bars.