The City of Mirrors: A Novel (Book Three of The Passage Trilogy)

by Justin Cronin

  As he moved toward the bed, the odor hit him: the rancid, biological reek of old vomitus. George’s chamber pot sat on the floor near the headboard; that was where the smell was coming from. Blankets were bunched at the foot of the mattress as if kicked aside by a restless sleeper. On the bedside table lay George’s gun, a long-barreled .357 revolver. Caleb opened the cylinder and pushed the ejection rod. Six cartridges fell into his palm; one had been fired. He turned around and swept the pistol over the room, then lowered the gun and stepped toward the fractured mirror. At the epicenter of the cracks was a single bullet hole.

  Something had happened here. George had obviously been ill, but there was more to it. A robbery? But the lockbox hadn’t been touched. And the bullet hole was strange. A stray shot, perhaps, though something about it seemed deliberate—as if, lying in bed, George had shot his own reflection.

  In the alley, he filled his jugs from the tank and loaded them onto the buckboard. It wouldn’t do to leave without paying; he made his best guess and left the bills under the counter with a note: “Nobody here, door unlocked. Took fifteen gallons of kerosene. If the money isn’t enough, I’ll be back in a week and can pay you then. Sincerely, Caleb Jaxon.”

  On the way out of town, he stopped at the town office to report what he’d found. At least someone should fix the door of the mercantile and lock the place up until they knew what had happened to George. But nobody was there, either.

  —

  Dusk was settling down when he returned to the house. He unloaded the kerosene, put the horses in the paddock, and entered the house. Pim was sitting with Kate by the cold woodstove, writing in her journal.

  Did you get what you needed?

  He nodded. Strange how Kate was now the silent one. The woman had barely glanced up from her knitting.

  How was town?

  Caleb hesitated, then signed: Very quiet.

  They ate corn cakes for supper, played a few hands of go-to, and went to bed. Pim was out like a light, but Caleb slept badly; he barely slept at all. All night his mind seemed to skip over the surface of sleep like a stone upon water, never quite breaking the skin. As dawn approached, he gave up trying and crept from the house. The ground was moist with dew, the last stars receding into a slowly paling sky. Birds were singing everywhere, but this wouldn’t last; to the south, where the weather came from, a wall of flickering clouds roiled at the horizon. So: a spring storm. Caleb guessed he had maybe twenty minutes before it arrived. He gave himself another minute to watch it, then retrieved the first jug of kerosene from the shed and lugged it to the edge of the woods.

  He didn’t know what he was seeing. It simply made no sense. Perhaps it was the light. But no.

  The mounds were gone.

  * * *

  40

  0600 hours: Michael Fisher, Boss of the Trade, stood on the quay to watch the morning light come on. A thick, cloudy dawn; the waters of the channel, caught between tides, were absolutely motionless. How long since he’d slept? He was not so much tired—he was well past that—as running on some reserve of energy that felt vaguely lethal, as if he were burning himself up. Once it was gone, that would be the end of him; he would vanish in a puff of smoke.

  He’d emerged from the bowels of the Bergensfjord with some vague intention he couldn’t recall; the moment he’d hit fresh air, the plan had fled from his mind. He’d drifted down to the edge of the wharf and found himself just standing there. Twenty-one years: amazing how so much time could slip by. Events grabbed hold of you and in the blink of an eye there you were, with sore knees and a sour stomach and a face in the mirror your barely recognized, wondering how all of it had happened. If that was really your life.

  The Bergensfjord was nearly ready. Propulsion, hydraulics, navigation. Electronics, stabilizers, helm. The stores were loaded, the desalinators up and running. They’d stripped the ship to the simplest configuration; the Bergensfjord was basically a floating gas tank. But a lot had been left to chance. For instance: Would she actually float? Computations on paper were one thing; reality was another. And if she did, could her hull, cobbled together from a thousand different plates of salvaged steel, a million screws and rivets and patch welds, withstand a journey of such duration? Did they have enough fuel? What about the weather, especially when they attempted to round Cape Horn? Michael had read everything he could find about the waters he intended to cross. The news was not good. Legendary storms, crosscurrents of such violence that they could snap your rudder off, waves of towering dimensions that could downflood you in a second.

  He sensed someone coming up behind him: Lore.

  “Nice morning,” she said.

  “Looks like rain.”

  She shrugged, looking over the water. “Still nice, though.”

  She meant, How many more mornings will we have? How many dawns to watch? Let’s enjoy it while we can.

  “How are things in the pilothouse?” Michael asked.

  She blew out a breath.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll get it.”

  A bit of pink was in the clouds now. Gulls swooped low over the water. It really was a fine morning, Michael thought. He felt suddenly proud. Proud of his ship, his Bergensfjord. She had traveled halfway around the world to test his worthiness. She had given them a chance and said, Take it if you can.

  A glow of light appeared on the causeway.

  “There’s Greer,” he said. “I better go.”

  Michael made his way up the quay and met the first tanker truck just as Greer stepped down from the cab.

  “That’s the last of it,” Greer said. “We tapped out at nineteen tankers, so we left the last one behind.”

  “Any problems?”

  “A patrol eyeballed us south of the barracks at Rosenberg. I guess they just assumed we were on the way to Kerrville. I thought they’d be onto us by now, but apparently they’re not.”

  Michael glanced over Greer’s shoulder and signaled to Rand. “You got this one?”

  Men were swarming over the tankers. Rand gave him a thumbs-up.

  Michael looked at Greer again. The man was obviously worn out. His face had thinned to skull-like proportions: cheekbones ridged like knives, eyes red-rimmed and sunk into their pockets, skin waxy and damp. A frost of white stubble covered his cheeks and throat; his breath was sour.

  “Let’s get something to eat,” Michael said.

  “I could go for some shut-eye.”

  “Have breakfast with me first.”

  They’d erected a tent on the quay with a commissary and cots for resting. Michael and Greer filled their bowls with watery porridge and sat at a table. A few other men were hunched over their breakfasts, robotically shoveling the gruel into their mouths, faces slack with exhaustion. Nobody was talking.

  “Everything else good to go?” Greer asked.

  Michael shrugged. More or less.

  “When do you want us to flood the dock?”

  Michael took a spoon of the porridge. “She should be ready in a day or two. Lore wants to inspect the hull herself.”

  “Careful woman, our Lore.”

  Patch appeared on the far side of the tent. Eyes unfocused, he shambled across the space, lifted the lid on the pot, decided against it, and took one of the cots instead, not so much lying down as succumbing, like a man felled by a bullet.

  “You should catch a few winks yourself,” Greer said.

  Michael gave a painful laugh. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  They finished breakfast and walked to the loading area, where Michael’s pickup was parked. Two of the tankers were already drained and standing off to the side. An idea took shape in Michael’s mind.

  “Let’s leave one tanker full and move it to the end of the causeway. Do we have any of those sulfur igniters left?”

  “We should.”

  No further explanation was necessary. “I’ll let you see to it.”

  Michael got in the pickup and placed his Beretta in the bracket under the stee
ring wheel; a short-barreled shotgun with a pistol grip and a sidesaddle of extra shells was clamped between the seats. His rucksack rested on the passenger seat: more rounds, a change of clothes, matches, a first-aid kit, a pry bar, a bottle of ether and a rag, and a cardboard folder sealed with twine.

  Michael started the engine. “You know, I’ve never been in jail before. What’s it like?”

  Greer grinned through the open window. “The food’s better than it is here. The naps are sensational.”

  “So, something to look forward to.”

  Greer’s expression sobered. “He can’t know about her, Michael. Or about Carter.”

  “You’re not making my job any easier, you know.”

  “It’s how she wants it.”

  Michael regarded his friend for another few seconds. The man really did look terrible. “Go sleep,” he said.

  “I’ll add it to my to-do list.”

  The two men shook. Michael put the truck in gear.

  * * *

  41

  “Everybody, settle down!”

  The auditorium was packed, all the seats taken, with more people crowded into the back and along the aisles. The room stank of fear and unwashed skin. At the front of the room, the mayor, red-faced and sweating, pointlessly banged his gavel on the podium, yelling for silence, while behind him, the members of the Freestate Council—as ineffective a group of individuals as Eustace had ever laid eyes on—found papers to shuffle and buttons to adjust, guiltily averting their gazes like a group of students caught cheating on a test.

  “My wife’s missing!”

  “My husband! Has anybody seen him?”

  “My kids! Two of them!”

  “What happened to all the dogs? Did anybody else notice that? No dogs anywhere!”

  More banging of the gavel. “Goddamnit, people, please!”

  And so on. Eustace glanced at Fry, who was standing on the other side of the room and sending him a look that said, Oh boy, ain’t this going to be fun.

  Finally the room quieted enough for the mayor to be heard. “Okay, that’s better. We know everybody’s worried and wants answers. I’m going to bring up the sheriff, who can maybe shed some light. Gordon?”

  Eustace took the podium and got to it. “Well, we don’t know much more at this point than everybody else. About seventy folks have gone missing over the last couple of nights. Mind, these are the ones we know about. Deputy Fry and I haven’t gotten out to all the farms yet.”

  “So why aren’t you out looking for them?” a voice yelled.

  Eustace parsed the man’s face from the crowd. “Because I’m standing here talking to you, Gar. Now just button it so I can get through this.”

  A voice barked from the other side of the room: “Yeah, shut your mouth and let the man talk!”

  More yelling, anxious voices volleying back and forth. Eustace let it run its course.

  “Like I was saying,” he continued, “we don’t know where these folks have gone off to. What seemed to have happened is that, for whatever reason, these individuals got up in the middle of the night, went outside, and didn’t come back.”

  “Maybe somebody’s taking them!” Gar yelled. “Maybe that person is right here in this room!”

  The effect was instantaneous; everybody started looking at everybody else. A low murmuring rippled through the room. Could it be…?

  “We’re not ruling anything out at this point,” Eustace said, aware of how weak this sounded, “but that doesn’t seem so likely. We’re talking about a lot of people.”

  “Maybe it’s more than one person doing this!”

  “Gar, you want to come up here and run this meeting?”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “What you’re doing is scaring people. I’m not having you start a panic, people looking sideways at each other. For all we know, these folks have gone off on their own. Now, pipe down before I lock you up.”

  A woman in the front row rose to her feet. “Are you saying my boys ran away? They’re six and seven!”

  “No, I’m not saying that, Lena. We just don’t have any more information than what I’m telling you. The best thing people can do is stay in their homes till we sort this out.”

  “And what about my wife?” Eustace couldn’t see who was talking. “Are you saying she just up and left me?”

  The mayor, stepping forward to retake the podium, held up both hands. “I think what the sheriff is trying to express—”

  “He’s not ‘expressing’ anything! You heard him! He doesn’t know!”

  Everybody started shouting again. There was no taking this thing back; it was spiraling out of control. Eustace glanced across the stage at Fry, who tipped his head toward the wings. As the mayor resumed banging his gavel, Eustace slipped backstage and met Fry at the door. The two men stepped outside.

  “Well, that was sure productive,” Fry said. “Glad to get out before the shooting started.”

  “I wouldn’t joke about that. We’re going to be on the top of everybody’s list if we don’t figure this thing out.”

  “Think they’re still alive?”

  “Not really.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  The day was bright and warm, the sun midpoint in a cloudless sky. Eustace remembered a day like this one: spring on the cusp of summer, the earth unclenching its fist, thick green leaves, rich with fragrance, fattening the trees. A walk by the river, Simon balanced on his shoulders, Nina beside him; the day like a marvelous gift, and then the moment, unmistakable, when the boy had had his fill; returning to the house and putting him down for his nap, Nina beckoning to him from the doorway with her special smile, the one only for him, and the two of them tiptoeing to their room to make quiet, lazy love on a sunny afternoon. Always the joke: How can you kiss this damn ugly face of mine? But she could; she did. The last such day; for Eustace, there would never come another.

  “Let’s find those missing people.”

  * * *

  42

  Apgar found Peter where he always was: at his desk, wading through a mass of paperwork. Just two days without Chase’s organizing presence, and Peter felt completely swamped.

  “Got a minute?”

  “Make it fast.”

  Apgar took the chair across from him. “Chase really sandbagged you. You shouldn’t have let him off the hook so easily.”

  “What can I say? I’m too nice.”

  Apgar cleared his throat. “We’ve got a problem.”

  He was filling out a form. “Are you quitting, too?”

  “Probably not the moment for that. I got a message from Rosenberg this morning. A lot of tankers moving through there in the last few days, but none of it is showing up here.”

  Peter raised his head.

  “You heard me.”

  “What does the refinery say?”

  “Everything on schedule, blah blah blah. Then, as of this morning, not a peep, and we can’t raise them.”

  Peter leaned back in his chair. Good God.

  “I’ve got men on the way to the refinery to check it out,” Apgar continued, “but I think I know what we’ll find. You’ve got to hand it to the guy for balls, anyway.”

  “What the hell would Dunk need our oil for?”

  “My bet is, he doesn’t. It’s a play. He wants something.”

  “Such as?”

  “You’ve got me there. It isn’t going to be small, though. Light and Power says we have enough gas on hand for ten days, a few more if we ration. Even if we can secure the refinery, no way we can get enough slick back into the system to keep the lights burning. In less than two weeks, this city goes dark.”

  Dunk had them in a vise. Peter had to admit, begrudgingly, that it was sort of brilliant. But one piece didn’t fit.

  “So he sends us a truck full of guns and ammo, then hijacks all our oil? It seems contradictory.”

  “Maybe the guns came from somebody else.”

  “That was bunker ammo. On
ly the trade has that stuff.”

  Apgar shifted in his chair. “Well, here’s another piece to consider. First you’ve got Cousin’s Place going up in smoke, then there’s a rumor going around that one of Dunk’s women showed up in the city saying that something happened out there. A lot of shooting.”

  “A power play by one of his guys, you mean.”

  “Could be just gossip. And I don’t see how it fits, but it’s something to consider.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “The woman?” Apgar almost laughed. “Who the hell knows?”

  The guns and the oil were connected, but how? It didn’t feel like Dunk; holding a city hostage was out of his league, and the Army now had enough weaponry to take the isthmus and put him out of business. It would be a slaughter on both sides—the causeway was a kill box—but once the dust settled, Dunk Withers would find himself either lying dead in a ditch with fifty holes in him or swinging from a rope.

  So suppose, Peter thought, the oil wasn’t just a play. Suppose it was actually for something.

  “What do we know about this boat of his?” he asked.

  Apgar frowned. “Not a lot. Nobody from the outside has laid eyes on the damn thing in years.”

  “But it’s big.”

  “So folks say. You think that’s got something to do with it?”

  “I don’t know what to think. But there’s something we’re missing. Have we spread that ammo around?”

  “Not yet. It’s still in the armory.”

  “Get it done. And let’s send a patrol to scout the isthmus. How long till we hear from Freeport?”

  “A couple of hours.”

  It was a little after three P.M. “Let’s get men on the perimeter. Tell them it’s a training exercise. And get some engineers on the gate. The thing hasn’t been closed in a decade.”

  Apgar gave him a look of caution. “Folks will notice that.”