He looked wary or cunning, and the effect on his young features wasn’t pleasant. Bell switched to a sterner tone of voice, wiggled his fingers. He was prepared to pry the ball loose if he had to. “Give me the picture, buddy.” The boy giggled, and relented. He passed the crumpled drawing to Bell, who smoothed the crinkled paper on the table top. Like those at the apartment, it was a perplexing pattern of lines, angles and curves like some mathematical equation, but rendered in silver ink so that it resembled the web of a deranged spider. In some respects it bore a resemblance to the tattoo that Irene had told Bell the boy wore on his chest. “Very nice. Interesting. What is this design, guy? Does this mean something?” “A gate,” the boy replied. “A gate. Is this Yog...whatever?” “This is Yog Sothoth.” The boy touched his sternum.
