“It doesn’t matter,” said Marci, “come on.”
I let her lead me toward the front door. “It didn’t disappear,” I said. “It’s not a Withered.”
“He’s not a Withered,” said Marci, though her voice had no passion.
“That’s what I said.”
She pushed the door half open, her wrist limp, and stared out through the glass at the crowd of police in the front of the building. They were buzzing like a hive, talking and arguing as much as the people inside were. Some were running toward their cars, others held back townspeople. Was one of them the killer? A cop or a civilian or the driver of that truck passing by? It had to be someone. What did they say the population was, nine hundred? Add in the state police and whatever other drifters and delivery drivers happened to be in town and we could round it off to an even thousand. How many had Attina killed? How many more would he kill if we didn’t catch him? If we just burned the whole city to the ground and took all of them out, was it worth it if we killed the Withered with them? Was there some formula for acceptable collateral damage? Was there enough math in morality to sacrifice a whole town of people?
I needed to burn something. I needed to scream and cry and hack a piece of meat into hamburger.
Marci wasn’t even pushing on the door anymore. “It doesn’t matter,” she said.
Don’t say it.
“It’s gonna kill us too,” she said.
I screamed in my mind, a long, inaudible howl of frustration, and then I swallowed all my rage, all my tension, all my pent-up emotions, choking them down like an owl in reverse, a ragged little bundle of bones and claws and bile, forcing it back down my gullet and pasting a broad, fake smile across my face. Her problems were more important than mine. “You want some ice cream?”
“I just want it to stop,” said Marci.
“It will,” I said, not even knowing what “it” she was referring to. I put my hand next to hers and pushed the door open, hoping that she would push with me, drawing strength from mine, but instead she just let her hand drop to her side. The summer sun beat down like a furnace, and I pulled her gently out into it, one hand on her arm and the other in front of my face trying to shield my eyes from the brightness. Boy Dog shoved past our legs, barking at the sun and heat and noise and everything else, like a tiny personification of the whole town’s restless anger. Marci resisted and I tugged again, whispering gently. “It’s all going to be just fine,” I said. “We’re going to figure out what’s going on—you and me. And we’re going to solve it.” Then, remembering her rage after we killed Yashodh, her indignant fury at the thought that being a good killer was something to be happy about, I changed my tactics. “We’re going to save everybody,” I said. “Three people are gone, but they’re the only ones.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, because we’re amazing,” I said, leading her down the steps. The cops weren’t even paying attention to us; they were too occupied with other concerns. “I know it because we’re good at this, we’re the best at this; we’re going to save the lives of every single person in this town. All 997 of them, including the cops and the drivers. Everyone. Do you hear me, Marci?”
She started crying.
“Marci, do you hear me? I need you to talk to me. We’re going to save everyone, can you say that? Say it with me: We’re going to save everyone.”
“I’m not Marci,” she sobbed, and she broke away from me and ran.
I bolted after her, forgetting the cops, forgetting Boy Dog, forgetting everything in the world but that one girl, skinny and dirty and afraid. My feet pounded on the pavement, leaping off the curb and onto the dusty asphalt, arms pumping at my sides. Just one girl. I didn’t even know who she was—maybe Brooke, maybe Regina, maybe Lucinda or Kveta or a hundred thousand others I’d never even met. It didn’t matter. She needed my help. She ran toward a car, trying to throw herself in front of it, but it passed too quickly; she ran toward the cinder block wall on the far side of the road, head down like a bull, and screamed a wordless cry as she plowed herself into it, skull first, my fingers just inches too far away to pull her back. She hit the wall with an audible smack and bounced off, reeling and falling. I only just managed to grab her shirt as she fell to the sidewalk, catching her before she hit her head again. She threw up, and I rolled her over to keep the vomit from choking her. Seconds later I was grabbed from behind, half a dozen rough hands yanking me away, pulling me back.
“Don’t take her away!” I screamed.
“Get off her!” shouted one of the cops, and suddenly cops were everywhere, appearing like magic as they caught up to us and surrounded us, misinterpreting Brooke’s sprint and my chase as some kind of abusive scenario.
“She’s a suicide risk!” I shouted.