“The flyers about the pizza place had an e-mail at the bottom. Ostler wants us to look into it, see if we can figure out who the leak comes from.”
She wouldn’t ask me to investigate myself, I thought. This probably isn’t her. “I can do better back on my laptop,” I said. “Let’s go back to the office.” Pearl unlocked the door, and I keyed in a single line response to the e-mail:
286 Penelope Road, under the third tree. I hit send.
“You going to tell me what this is about?” asked Pearl.
“Keep them alive,” said Diana. “The FBI is coming to transfer them to a larger hospital.”
“When?”
“As soon as they can get here,” said Potash.
“But you have to tell me what’s going on,” Pearl demanded. “What have I exposed my staff to? What precautions do we need to take? How can I keep them alive if I don’t even know what they—”
My phone dinged, telling me the message was sent. I dropped it in the mop bucket. The three adults all turned to me in surprise.
“Damn,” I said. “I’m really clumsy today.” I looked at Potash. “I should get more sleep.”
*
I bought another prepaid phone then spent the afternoon with the rest of the team, poking and prodding at the mysterious Pancho-hating e-mail address. We couldn’t determine anything and ended up sending that job to FBI headquarters as well. It bothered Ostler to send two things upstream in the same day, as if it were a sign to her bosses that she couldn’t do the ridiculous job they didn’t believe in anyway. I told her not to worry: once they got hold of those two bodies and they melted into ash right there on their operating tables, the FBI might finally be convinced. Ostler nodded gruffly but didn’t look remotely comforted.
That night, when Potash was on his CPAP and Boy Dog was snoring loudly on my floor, I used my new phone to check the e-mail address I’d buried under the tree. There was one message:
To the Esteemed John Wayne Cleaver,
I assume you’re the only one reading this. It was clever of you to build a double-blind message system, but the only reason to do so is to hide from both sides: mine and your own. You’re right not to trust them. I’ve been dealing with the FBI for years, probably since it was created. It may have been created specifically to search for me, in fact, but don’t put too much stock in it when I say things like that. When you’re as old as I am, and you’ve spawned as many kingdoms and religions, a single government agency is all too easy to claim credit for, deservedly or not.
I also think you’re right not to trust me, but only because I approve of caution. I am not an immediate danger to you, though I won’t promise as much for any of your friends. But I suppose “friends” is the wrong word, isn’t it? Your acquaintances. You’ve fallen in with a bad crowd, and if your mother was alive, she’d be very disappointed. Her little darling, consorting with thugs. And yes, knowing who you are means that I know about your mother, and of course your aunt and your sister. I know where they live. I’ve been in their homes, though they didn’t know it; I advise you not to tell them, either, as it would only disturb them unnecessarily. Let this stand as my first promise to you: that I will not hurt your family. Whatever trust is to exist between us, let us build it on that.
Because you are more like me than you admit, John Wayne Cleaver. I know about the Gifted you have killed. I know about the deep, driving need you feel to find us. You are a hunter, like me, and you feel in your bones the same primal instincts, stronger than any choice or moral. You catch the scent of blood on the air; you follow it with a single-minded dedication; you take away your prey’s defenses and destroy them utterly. It’s not the death that thrills you, but the power. The glorious secret knowledge that you are the one who did it, that nobody helped you and no one could stop you. That within your sphere of control you are absolute.
I know you, John Wayne Cleaver. I only wish that I can be there when you finally know yourself.
12
“Tell me about the other Withered,” I said. I was in the same room as Elijah this time, no mirrors or microphones to get in the way. He was still in a cell, of course, and probably would be until Ostler was convinced beyond all doubt that he was truly on our side. I didn’t know if that would ever happen. I wanted to apologize to him, for promising him partnership and then being stuck in a lie when Ostler made him a prisoner. I wanted to apologize but instead I planned. This wouldn’t happen if I were working on my own.
Potash was outside, waiting. As soon as I left, I’d be stuck with him again.
Elijah looked morose, but that was nothing new. Even before we’d recruited him, when we were still merely watching him from shadows and street corners, he’d been quiet and melancholy. He had nothing in his life but memories, and most of them were regrets.
“I need to visit Merrill,” he said.