“No, I don’t think so…just Ren.”
“No, I—oh, wait—yes, here. I actually only have a port location associated with that name.”
“And where would that be?”
“North American Plate, Temperate Biome, Huronian Quadrant.”
Pax mouthed to Ellis, That’s where we just were. “Could…ah…” Pax began pulling the Port-a-Call out. “Could you provide exact coords?”
The vox responded with a series of numbers and letters that meant nothing to Ellis, but which Pax feverishly entered into the tiny device.
“Thank you. Say goodbye, Abernathy.”
“Thank you so much for your time,” Abernathy said.
The link was severed, and Pax slumped into one of the white couches, staring at the portal device. “Okay, so we have a location, and it’s right back where everything started—back at the Ford Museum.”
“I don’t understand,” Ellis said. “Who is this Ren? You mentioned the name before in Pol’s office—why?”
“I get the impression this Ren is behind everything. The fake Pol and even the fake Geo-24 take their direction from Ren—no-number Ren—Ren Zero.” Pax picked up one of the little white throw pillows from the couch and hugged it. “I’ve never met a zero or an original anything…well, except for you. And I’ve never heard of a Ren before, and this one is on the grass.”
“But how do you know about Ren?”
“Fake Pol said it.”
“No.” Ellis shook his head. “Fake Pol never mentioned Ren. You were the first one to say that name.”
“I must have heard it someplace else then.”
“Where?”
Pax sighed. “Ellis Rogers, do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Then can you just believe me when I tell you that I have it on good authority that someone named Ren is behind the murders and not question me further on how I know?”
Ellis didn’t have to think. He trusted Pax. He trusted Pax more than he’d ever trusted anyone. Pax was the first person he’d known who—more than once—had proved themselves capable of thinking of Ellis first. His mother had always taken more than she gave, feeling that granting him life had been more than enough for her part. Peggy had given all her love to Isley, holding back nothing for him. Pax had asked for little, given much, and demonstrated a willingness to die for him—and they had just met. Still, he couldn’t help feeling hurt at the discovery of a wall between them. Pax was keeping a secret.
“I suppose,” Ellis replied. “But don’t you trust me? I sort of thought we—I mean, I thought we were becoming close, you know? After all, you let me cut you open with a deer-gutting knife.” He smiled.
Pax was looking at the pillow and breathing heavily. “Isn’t there any secret you’d prefer not to share with me? At least not yet?”
The image of Isley hanging from the garage rafters flashed through his mind, and he nodded. “Fair enough.”
“If it helps,” Pax said gently, “I’ve never spoken to anyone of it before. But if I were ever to tell anyone, it would be you, Ellis Rogers. I don’t think you would judge me like others might. So maybe one day you can tell me your secret, and I’ll tell you mine.”
Ellis nodded but didn’t think he could ever tell Pax about Isley. There was simply no way Pax could begin to understand. “So, are we going to find this Ren?”
“I am,” Pax said firmly, almost defiantly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means it’s my responsibility. The point of being an arbitrator is to keep the peace. I can’t let murderers continue killing.”
“What about me?”
“You’re the one they want. It would be pretty stupid to take you with me.” Pax put down the pillow and stood up. “This is dangerous, Ellis Rogers. It’s not your place. Are you an arbitrator?”
“I’m an engineer, but let me ask you this…do you have a gun?”
“Of course not.” Pax glanced at his hip, that familiar expression of horror darting across Pax’s face.
“Do you think anyone besides me has one?”
“No.”
Ellis smiled. “Then in this society that practically makes me Superman.”
“Superman?”
“A fictitious hero with supernatural powers—pretty much invincible.”
“Pretty much?”
“Never mind. I’m too old and sick to be on the run.”
Pax’s eyes softened. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Superman, remember?” He thumped his chest.
Pax didn’t look pleased. Maybe the humor wasn’t translating.
“Let’s go together. Like it or not, we’re a team now. Good cop, bad cop.”
Pax nodded. “You’re very strange, Ellis Rogers.” Pax smiled and then added, “I like that. Let me contact Cha. Someone else ought to know about a conspiracy that’s reached into the office of the Chief Councilor just in case we disappear into the grass.”
“Are you sure you can trust Cha?”
Pax smiled. “I’m an arbitrator. Believe me…I’m a very good judge of people.”
Entering Greenfield Village for the second time in a week, Ellis possessed an entirely new outlook. What he had seen as the forgotten remnants of humanity, he now viewed as a museum within a museum. The Henry Ford Museum used to house artifacts from America’s first two hundred years, but as he and Pax walked through the quaint gravel lanes, Ellis understood that the site itself had become an artifact worth preserving. The garbage bins that dotted Main Street, complete with plastic bag liners, were no longer trash receptacles but roped-off antiques. So were the ticket booth, ATM, public phone, and restrooms with their archaic symbols for men and women. What was a preservation of the past became part of the exhibit as museums themselves became the history.
Around noon they ported to the front gate and walked the sidewalk-lined streets with drooping bluebell lamps and Civil War-era architecture. No one stopped or greeted them. No one was there at all.
“Volunteers help maintain the museum,” Pax mentioned as they walked through empty streets. “And I’ve heard a few have actually begun living here full-time, history students, professors, and such, but this place was never all that popular.”
“I imagine the murder won’t help attendance.”
“No—I doubt it would.”
Ellis thought of Hollywood backlots—it was too well kept to be a ghost town. All the lawns were trimmed, the gravel smooth. Occasionally they would pass a buggy or a buckboard parked on the side of the road. After several days in Hollow World, being in Greenfield Village brought a flood of familiarity. Ellis fit among the curbs, pavement, shutters, and fences. He understood the windows and the sewers. A plastic garbage bag fluttered in the wind where it was held in place by a large rubber band—an old friend waving. Even the way his shoes slapped the pavement spoke of home, of cars, plastic bottles, and cellphones. Ellis was time traveling again, the sensation of tripping through eras becoming disorienting. He felt as if he’d woken up in the cozy comfort of his own epoch, the sights and sounds so much easier to accept than the idea of interdimensional doors spilling into the lithosphere where disembodied voices made convenience-store-quality coffee from gravel. After only a few minutes he might have begun to question whether any of it was true if not for the person walking beside him with cocked bowler, pin-striped pants, and silver vest.