“Is what worth it?”
“Coming here,” I said. His words had hit so close to home, and I thought about Brooke upstairs, too lost to even remember me. I thought about Marci and my mom, and wished I could lose those memories as easily as Brooke did. “Caring about someone who doesn’t care about you,” I said. “Who couldn’t care about you if he tried. Making connections with people who are only going to disappear.”
Elijah shook his head and looked down at his lap. He was carrying Merrill’s coat over his arm and seemed to stare it, or at nothing, for a long time. I sat quietly, embarrassed by my outburst, wondering what he would say in response. I waited for his answer.
And waited.
It seemed like ages later when Merrill emerged from the restroom. The sound seemed to rouse Elijah from whatever reverie had taken him and he stood and turned to greet the old man.
“All set?”
“Well look who’s here,” said Merrill, as if he didn’t remember that Elijah had been waiting for him.
Elijah offered him his coat. “You still want to go for a walk?”
“I can’t go for a walk, have you seen the snow outside?”
“There’s certainly a lot of it.”
They chatted for a minute about the snow and who shoveled it, and then walked back toward the elevator, their reason for coming down here either abandoned or completely forgotten.
That, or Elijah’s sole purpose had been to see me, and now he was done. Walking in here this morning, that would have been the only explanation I’d have believed, but after the conversation we’d just had.… I am a very experienced liar and I can tell when other people are saying something that doesn’t fit. Nothing Elijah Sexton said made any sense to me, but it had made sense to him. It fit for him.
I pulled out my phone and walked outside into the cold. Agent Ostler answered on the second ring.
“Hello, John.”
“Elijah Sexton isn’t hunting us.”
“You’re sure?”
“Not a hundred percent,” I said, “but probably ninety-nine. I just talked to him and I’d swear he had no idea who I was. I think he visits Merrill Evans because they’re genuinely just friends.”
“Would you bet your life on it?”
I hesitated, not because of the question itself, but the way she phrased it. This was more than just asking me if I was certain. She was worried about something, and I knew Ostler well enough to know that she was never worried by abstract concepts. Something new had happened.
I walked toward the street. “What’s wrong?”
“Get Nathan and Trujillo,” she said, “and come to the police station. There’s been another killing.”
A dozen questions flooded my mind, but I focused on the one that concerned me most. “That would leave Brooke alone.”
“She’s in the secure wing of a dementia facility, surrounded by trained personnel.”
“Medical personnel,” I said, stopping on a windswept corner of the intersection. “If the Withered come for her, they’ll be no help at all.”
Ostler let out a long, slow breath. “After what I’ve seen today, none of us would be any help. If you swear Elijah’s not hunting us—”
“You asked if I’d bet my life on it,” I said. “Betting Brooke’s is different.”
“I’m asking you to examine a corpse,” said Ostler. “Cut the pretense and get down here; you’re wasting time.”
She hung up, and I stood on the corner, staring at the flurries of fallen snow the wind picked up and swirled across the asphalt. I didn’t want to leave Brooke, but Ostler was right. The chance to examine a body was something I’d been waiting for ever since I’d joined this team. I could complain and argue and stall as long I wanted, but eventually I’d go. I wanted to stay away on purpose, obstinately, for that reason alone, but I couldn’t. My feet were already crossing the street, as far beyond my control as Brooke’s hand, writing invisible notes to no one on her bedspread.
*
“His name is Stephen Applebaum,” said Ostler, “and somebody must have really been mad at him.” Our whole team, minus Potash, was gathered in a pale-blue room in the morgue, looking down at a metal table containing a man-shaped thing under a sheet. The police had stepped out, giving us a moment of privacy. The once-sterile sheet was caked here and there with dark brown bloodstains. It was all I could do not to reach out and touch one. “Forty-two years old, Caucasian male, found in the Dumpster behind the Riverwalk Motel. They offer both nightly and hourly rates, so you know it’s classy. His clothing was with him, though most of it wasn’t on him at the time.”