I sink back into the seat. Can I even do this? Stay? Fight? What am I even fighting for? Angrily I scrub the tears from my eyes.
“My sweet?”
Otto’s just outside the open door, briefcase in hand. “Oh,” I say.
“What is it, Justine? What’s wrong? Sammy said you were out here…”
I get out of the seat and slam the door. “I wanted something,” I say. “I had this idea it might be in the car.”
“Is this your book again? You’ve been looking for that book for weeks. Let’s get you a new copy. I’ll get you fifty new copies. I’ll track down the author and see if I can get an advanced copy of her next release. None of this is a problem.”
“I don’t want a new one. I want the one I had!” I straighten my hair, trying to put a lid on my distress. “I liked that one. It was mine.”
Silence.
“Your guys dusted. Did you find anything? Any clues?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry.” He tilts his head. “This isn’t really about the book, is it?” He comes near, rests a hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay to feel traumatized.”
“I’m not traumatized.” I shake him off, cross my arms. “I’m mad. Just about the wrongness of it.”
“We’ll make it right,” he says.
Damn right we’ll make it right. I force a smile. “Fifty copies?”
“As many as you please, okay? I have to go.” I try not to be too wooden when he kisses me. “I’m looking forward to tonight,” he says. “See you at five.”
I paint on a smile and watch him stroll up the parking garage incline toward the wintry morning sunlight.
Tonight. Good lord, I’d almost forgotten. We’re taking the limo the hour out of town to pick up my dad and bring him back for a private dinner at the penthouse; then we’re putting him up at the Midcity Arms Hotel, right down the street from our building. It’s not much of a wedding dinner, but my dad is the only relative we have between us, aside from my brother, who is unreachable in Bolivia. Otto and I plan to have a grand banquet after the wedding, and several hundred people are coming to that.
I lean against the car trunk and try Shelby. Voice mail. “Me again,” I say. “I might come over to your place later. We need to talk.” Then I try Simon. Voice mail. “I don’t know if you know about my…er…disagreement with Shelby last night, but if you see her, I was just wrong. I want us to make up.” I click off. My calls probably aren’t being monitored, but I’m going to err on the side of never being stupid again.
After a chat and an elevator ride with Norman, I’m back in the cool, quiet expanse of our penthouse. Alone. Kenzo must have left to do marketing. Time to look for evidence.
I try the door to Otto’s office. Locked. But I happen to know we have a master key—Otto had to use it once when a party guest locked the bathroom door from the outside. I remember his going into the kitchen to get it, but I didn’t see where in the kitchen. I head in. Key, key. I root through the drawers. Nothing. I even look under the silverware tray. I check the junk drawer twice, pulling stuff out, until I discover a box of utility matches that contains something more than matches. Keys.
I head to the master bath and turn on the shower and shut the door. If Kenzo comes back and needs to talk with me, he’ll wait until the shower is off. Then I skulk across to Otto’s office and let myself in, locking the door behind me.
Otto’s office is tidy, masculine. There’s a hollow, whooshing quality to the silence of it, though maybe that’s the cars in the distance. Heavy, wooden furnishings and bookcases line the walls, and a closed laptop rests on his big, old wooden desk. I can see the gold-embroidered edge of his mayoral robe through the slightly ajar closet door; his police dress uniform and sash of medals probably hang in there too.
I sit in his chair and start opening drawers, searching the insides and underneath, like they do in the movies. Sometimes Otto seals people up where there are built-in food sources—Packard in the Mongolian Delites restaurant, for example. And he has the Belmont Butcher in the back room of a butcher shop. But sometimes he puts people in places with no food source, and then he has to make arrangements. Rickie the telepath was imprisoned in a low-rent apartment in northwest Midcity, and food was delivered to her weekly. When Ez was in the coat-check booth, he had some sort of agreement with the bar owner. I’m thinking he’d have Carter and the other disillusionists somewhere isolated. Watchtowers, cabins, places requiring regular food deliveries. And with dozens and dozens of prisoners out there, and now disillusionists being held, surely he’s documenting things. And if he’s documenting things, it’s on paper, not on the computer. Otto doesn’t like to do important things online—he trusts the tactile world. It comes from being a force-fields guy.
I discover bank records in the top drawer of his filing cabinet. There are monthly recurring debits with initials next to them. What do they mean? I copy them down, along with other numbers that seem related. After that, I paw through election files. Donors, promo plans. Some government and police documents. All very innocent looking. Would he keep a list or map down on the seventh floor? I’m thinking Shelby did a pretty thorough search down there.
I move to the bottom file drawer, hating that Shelby never leveled with me. Yes, I understand why; I understand it wouldn’t have gone well, but I still hate it.
I think again of the kiss, of Packard’s expression when I recognized the memory as a revise. And the way he’d said my name. I want to think he was happy to have my good regard and even affection back, and not just happy that the truth was finally out. Is that pathetic? Is it wishful thinking? He certainly didn’t care about my regard or affection when he conned me into giving up my life to be his minion.
In back of the filing cabinet I find a folder that contains papers covered in strange squiggles and symbols, which I recognize as Vindalese, the native language of Vindahar. Vindahar is the remote, mountainous region of Asia where Otto spent all those years in a cave under the tutelage of a wise sage. Documents from that era? I’m about to stuff them back in the file, but then I stop and pause; the paper is new, high quality, maybe even linen, and there are no creases or curled corners. Hardly what you’d expect from documents written years ago, or carried across the ocean. Some of the papers look like lists. I hold a sheet up to the light and find the watermark. I pull a sheet of paper out of his printer and hold it up and find the same watermark. They were written recently. My heart starts pounding and I shuffle through the sheets. Lists, numbers. Ten sheets in all.
I pull out my camera phone and start snapping photos, then I stuff them back. Lord knows where we’ll get them translated. Is there an online translator for Vindalese? That’s when I hear the footsteps. I freeze, except for my heart, which smashes against my throat. A key in the door.
Quickly and quietly, I slide the two still-open drawers closed and slip into the closet, as far back as possible. A creak. Footsteps.
Otto.
The chair squeaks. He’s sitting. Damn. I hear his computer go on. Tap-tap-tap. I cross my arms and wait, like a turtle, pulled into its shell. And then a bad thought comes to me. I pat my pockets. Empty. I left my cell phone on top of his filing cabinet. My heart beats a trillion miles an hour. It’s not in his direct line of vision, but if it rings, he’ll know I was there. Here. Wildly, I think he already knows.
Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. A sigh. Tap. A ping. E-mail. Office chair creaks.
No, he doesn’t know. It’s just fear. I steady my breath. He couldn’t know. The shower is running. Though he sometimes comes in and talks to me.
“Hello?”
I freeze. Eyes wide.
“Right,” he says. “Fine. Then do it over.”
I nearly implode in relief. He’s on his own phone. I sit there, praying it’s not a conference call. Sometimes he comes home to take conference calls, and they can last for a long time. I shift uncomfortably as Otto talks about handing out leads, distributing them evenly.
“They can get their own if they’
re unhappy, but beggars can’t be choosers, can they?”
There’s a silence. He’s agreeing. This doesn’t sound much like a conference call. It sounds like a sales call, what with all the talk of leads.
“Maverick’s stadium,” he says. Then, “Yup, and the old mill.”
I wait. The shower can’t stay on forever.
“Add the Mav’s outbuildings,” he says.
The old mill? Mav’s outbuildings? These are abandoned places. Is it possible he’s rattling off disillusionist prison locations? It’s almost too good to be true.
“No,” he says, “No underground parking structures.” Grunts. “Aboveground. Fine, right. No low ceilings. Immediate full-court press. I mean it.”
Silence. Creak. Another creak. Grunts. Rocking back in his chair. “I could see him there. Put it down. Sure, the Tanglelands. I don’t care—any urban ruins,” he says. “Anything with some degree of openness, ideally, an open sky above.” Silence. “Canine would be excellent….No, excellent. Yes, speak with Chuck.” He laughs here. “Mongolian Delites? Certainly not. The only way he’s going back there is feet first in a box. I don’t need his sight to know that.”
Shivers crawl up my spine. He’s not rattling off disillusionist prisons; he’s directing the Packard manhunt. Otto said that same thing to me once, that Packard would never set foot back in Mongolian Delites while he’s still alive. His sight is Packard’s power of psychological insight.
“No,” he says. “Yes. Six. Thanks.” A click.
Tap-tap-tap. Creak.
He mentioned the Tanglelands too. Is Otto having people search the Tanglelands? With canine units? I have to warn my friends.
My legs are losing their feeling; I could probably move without sound, but I don’t want to chance it.
A familiar ringtone startles me. His phone. “Hello. Yes. Coliform? How much? What’s the standard.” Silence. “Federal side? Right. Okay.” I gather it’s one of the city engineers. A municipal water problem—they’ve shut down one of the city wells because of unacceptable levels of something. Apparently there are ten wells. Otto has a lot of questions. Somebody is going to investigate something. He got two phone calls, and only the city business one rang; the other must have vibrated, and that was anything but city business. He has a secret, second cell phone. Of course.
Otto makes another call about the water. Questions about testing. Click. Shuffle. Chair creak. Footsteps to the door. Door open and shut. Lock snap.
I sneak out, grab my phone, and shut it off, and then I stand there, trying to recall if I heard his footsteps after he shut the door. I tiptoe all the way to the door and put my ear to it.
I wait. Listen. Silence.
What if he’s right on the other side, waiting quietly? I hold still, wishing for something definitive: his voice far away, or a swish of cloth against wood.
Nothing. I can’t wait forever. I take a breath and turn the handle, easing the door open, tensed for a surprise. I’m relieved to find the hall empty. I shut the door, sneak to the master bedroom, and find it empty, too. I rush into the bathroom, rip off my clothes, get wet in the shower, and immediately get out, winding a towel around myself.
Everybody’s gone when I emerge from the bedroom, dressed, but with conspicuously wet hair. When I call Shelby, I go straight to voice mail again. Maybe she’s in the Tanglelands with Packard and Jordan. That’s good and bad. Good because I can find them. Bad because whoever Otto has searching can find them too.
Chapter Ten
I tell Max I’m going to Shelby’s to handle some last-minute girl-hairdo plans. He’ll follow me, of course, and wait outside. Let him.
I’m wearing a yellow dress, my black cashmere coat, and fancy boots, but in my bag I have rugged, waterproof layers and SOREL boots, plus jeans and a normal sweater and jacket, my flashlight, my blonde Halloween wig, my stun gun, and the pearl-handled lady’s revolver Otto bought me for my birthday.
I park at Shelby’s and climb the stairs to her place. She doesn’t answer my knock, so I use the key from under the mat to let myself in, and quickly walk across to the window to wave to Max—that’s our sign that all is okay. I change into my more rugged clothes, put on my wig under my hat, and skulk out the back way of her apartment building. I don’t see anybody watching. If they are, they won’t recognize me. I creep behind dumpsters and go over another street, and then across the garbage-y wasteland and into the darkness of the Tanglelands.
It’s scarier to go into the Tanglelands this time, because Shelby isn’t nearby, and I haven’t just zinged out all my fear. In fact, my fear has built up quite a bit in the last twelve hours, almost to my usual crazy levels. I trudge on, thoroughly disgusted with myself. Will I ever be free of this madness?
I take off my itchy wig and pull my hat down over my ears. Cars drone dully overhead. The place is lighter at least; shafts of pale gloom stream through the gaps between the roadways overhead, illuminating the steam, or maybe I should say noxious vapors, that rise from the puddles of slime. Voices sound out at one point and I lose time hiding in a gully while a trio of bedraggled men tromp around. I can tell by the way they move that they’re not sleepwalking cannibals. But they’re in the Tanglelands, which means they’re trouble. My knee screams with pain.
As soon as they head off, I continue down into the gully, over the rubble hills, and in through the cave-like passageways, trying not to bend my leg much. I finally reach the giant cavern with its roadways corkscrewing madly overhead. But when I peer across the expanse of slime to where Packard and Jordan were last night, there’s no fire, no sign of life whatsoever. I want to call out, just in case they’re laying low, but that could attract attention of the wrong kind.
So I set off around the slime lake, navigating the tires and blocks of broken road that compose the ridge, amazed that I somehow picked over it in rollerblades last night. I have this idea that if they’re not there, I’ll find some indication of where they went, or maybe I’ll touch the fire scar and decipher how long they’ve been gone. Like I’m this woodsy scout. Soon I’m hoisting myself over a concrete barrier and into the little encampment.
Deserted.
I touch a charred piece of wood. One piece seems warm, but what does that mean? It would help if I knew how long a piece of wood stays warm after a fire is out.
Something green sticks out from under a square of corrugated metal. I go grab it. A big, sturdy, green cotton glove I recognize as Packard’s. Worn on the fingers. Frayed on the cuff. I sit down on a rock by the fire scar and press it to my face, breathing in his cinnamony scent. Sure, maybe he uses me, tricks me when it’s convenient, but I feel this love for him all the same. And he’s out there somewhere with a reward on his head, hunted by elite cops and soldiers. With dogs. I have to find him, but where do I even look?
And Otto and I have those plans to go and get my dad tonight. And the wedding tomorrow! How long can I keep up this pretense? I have to see Packard. I have to decide what to do.
“So that’s where it went.”
I spring up. “Packard.” Reddish curls sneak out from under his black winter cap, and his beat-up canvas coat is full of dust and dirt. And he’s grinning, of course, because he saw me smelling his glove.
I feel like an idiot and I throw it at him. He catches it, grinning still. I can’t help but smile back, because it feels so good to see him, just plain old good. Like a simple little daisy atop a mountain of angst.
“You thought about it,” he says. “You’re with us.”
“You know, a person gets tired of being a predictable puppet.”
His eyes twinkle, green and alive. “I knew you’d come through. That hardly makes you a predictable puppet.” He pulls on his glove and pauses, as if to study it. “Did anything else…” he looks up. “Did anything else come to you?”
“Like what?”
He looks thoughtful, and I can see right when he decides to tell me. “Justine,” he says, super serious—like he’s preparing me for the wor
st.
“Wait,” I say, losing my nerve. I feel good for once—do I want to ruin it by learning more awful things? “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
“You don’t?”
“I think I’ve had enough tumult for now,” I say.
“Okay,” he says softly.
And then Jordan and Shelby are scrambling down from a shade-shrouded nook in the wall beyond where we stand. “Wow,” I say. “It looks like pure wall.”
Jordan has her tracker-finder device.
“You guys have to clear out,” I say. “This place is going to be searched.”
“Already been searched,” Jordan says. “Now pipe down and hold out your arms.”
I comply. “It’ll be searched again,” I say. “I overheard Otto having a conversation about it. The old stadium, the docks, all urban ruins, including this place. With dogs. Canine units, to be specific.”
“Clean.” Jordan sinks to a seat and looks up at Packard. “That could be effective down here. Very effective. If they give the dogs something of ours.”
“Is too dangerous at night anyways,” Shelby says. “With sleepwalkers.”
“You sleep here too?”
“If I am here too late to cross back.”
“Any time frame on that search?” Jordan asks.
“The term ‘immediate full-court press’ was used,” I say. “Otto has dangerous mercenaries working for him. We’re talking about a militia working on an ASAP basis. That’s your time frame.”
“How did you overhear this?” Packard asks. “Justine, you can’t be taking chances.”
“I’m not taking chances; I’m taking care of business. I was revised. A day was stolen from me and my head was filled with lies. I’m not exactly in the mood to go out and get that French manicure, you know?”
Shelby says, “But you are a bride tomorrow.”
Packard shoots me a look.
“So it seems,” I say.
“Let’s concentrate on getting out,” Jordan says. She heads to a corner and moves some cinder blocks.
“We’ll go to my place,” Shelby says. “Until we can think.”
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