“It could just be a conclusion,” I said.
“Possibly,” said Trujillo. “But it doesn’t act like a conclusion: we all read it as an extension of Potash’s paragraph, but that would make him the only member of the team to get two. It’s more likely, I think, that’s it’s a reference to the seventh member of our team. Let me read it to you.” He looked at his computer screen and read: “‘There are antelopes, and there are lions. And then there is something more. Think carefully about the company you keep.’” He looked up. “The Hunter has kept a very consistent pattern with his lion-and-antelope metaphor over all three letters: a lion is a killer, and an antelope is a victim. Him and us. Withered and human. But what does that last bit refer to? Something more? Couldn’t this be a reference to Brooke? The amalgamation of human and Withered together?”
“She’s not a Withered,” I said.
“But she’s not really human anymore either,” said Nathan. “We’re not trying to disrespect her, obviously, but be honest with yourself. She’s messed up.”
“Maybe she wasn’t in the letter because she didn’t do anything wrong,” I said. “Did you think of that? This nasty little hit squad of rapists and murderers, and the one who suffers the most is the one who’s never actually hurt anyone?”
“How does this help us find The Hunter?” asked Ostler.
“We’re getting to that,” said Nathan. “And it’s a direct answer to John, too.”
“Brooke’s paragraph is different because she is different,” said Trujillo, “but also because The Hunter thinks of her differently. He doesn’t see her as an enemy—which implies that she’s a friend.”
“She’s not Nobody,” I said. “She’s Brooke Watson.”
“She has more of Nobody in her than Brooke,” said Trujillo. “This has been our concern ever since she first recognized Elijah—even before that, frankly, which is why I was brought on the team in the first place. If Brooke feels more kinship with the Withered than with us, she might start to help them.”
I wanted to break his skull. “She would never—”
“We searched her room,” said Nathan coldly. “Top to bottom. There was a rip in the bottom of the mattress: she was hiding letters.”
The room fell silent.
“That’s impossible,” said Diana.
“The one we found was written in crayon,” said Trujillo. “It’s the only writing instrument the nurses would give her, because they’re not sharp enough to hurt anyone. She ripped the letter out of my hands and ate it before we could learn any more, but one of the nurses confirmed that she’d been passing letters between Brooke and another man for a couple of weeks now.”
“I think you could have led with that,” snapped Ostler, suddenly angry. “How did this happen? Weren’t the nurses briefed on Brooke’s situation?”
“We’ve been keeping them in the dark about almost everything,” said Trujillo. “They knew Brooke was unstable, but they didn’t know why, and they certainly didn’t know she might be contacting a fugitive. In a regular mental institution this might have raised some red flags, but in an assisted-living center it’s a different situation. The nurses go out of their way to help the patients interact with people because most of them don’t get enough contact with the outside. It didn’t occur to the nurse that the letters might be bad.”
“It’s not true,” I said, though I didn’t feel it. He was right: Brooke was more Withered than human, mentally speaking. She was an emotional wreck. Think carefully about the company you keep.
“Did you get a description of the man?” asked Ostler. “Have we found him?”
“His name is Aldo Blankenship,” said Nathan. “He lives in The Corners, a block away from Pancho’s Pizza.”
*
I stared at Elijah. “Tell us everything you know about Rack.”
We were back in the interrogation room, where he’d been led by the restraining collar.
“Rack’s not your cannibal,” he said, rubbing his neck. “He doesn’t have a mouth.”
“So I hear,” I said. “Sit down and tell me about him.”
Elijah blew out a long, slow breath, and sat heavily in the chair across from me. We were the only two people in the room—I was the only one willing to be in a room with him—but the others were listening behind the glass. He looked at me intently.
“Rack is the king,” he said. “He’s the one who came up with this idea in the first place, who figured out how to make us Gifted. He is far more powerful, and far more dangerous, than any other Withered you’ve ever faced.”
“What kind of power?”
“Do you believe you have a soul?” he asked suddenly.