And there’s another factor, too. Especially when the god’s roused up.
There is debate on this. Officially, no, the gods cannot “get inside your head.” They cannot winkle out whatever’s bothering you and turn it into some huge, crippling, psychological obsession that will render you helpless, stupefied, or dead. Officially, they can’t do anything like that.
But they can have a damn good try.
None of which would have been more than routine problems, if it weren’t for the location.
In a good retrieval, there’s precision. You place the cables so; you power them up, you play your quarry, drive it, fight it if you have to.
Water ruins that. Water turns it all to mush.
Water, generally, is not the place you want to find your god.
I brought the flask and cables and control box into our motel room. I checked them over. I had Angel check them over. Then we joined the cables into several lengths we thought would span the pond. Another, much longer, to circle it. I used Google Maps to estimate the scale. We made a plan.
“You get the next one. Honestly,” I said.
“I better,” she said. And gave me a look I hope I never, never see again.
Silverman, too, had been preparing. He showed me his night vision gear. “Military issue. It’s what they used in Iraq.” He bounced from foot to foot. “Makes everything look green. But, you know, sometimes, that’s more dramatic, don’t you think?”
He tipped the monitor so I could see.
“I’m curious,” I said. “I’d like to know why Eddie sent you that text.”
“Pretty obvious, I thought. Claiming credit, so we’d think—”
“Back up a bit. He’s got your phone number. He’s not got mine, he’s not got Angel’s. But somehow, he’s got yours. Why’s that?”
The silence went on just a bit too long.
“Oh yeah,” he said, and rubbed the back of his neck.
“You’ve dealt with him before.”
“Like I said, the exhibition, and . . . some other stuff.”
“What ‘other stuff’?”
“Not him, exactly. One of their companies. And, yeah. His father, just briefly. Ballington . . . senior.” He put the camera down. “I was trying for funding. I mean, these people, they’re, like, stupid rich. You won’t believe. So I thought, since they’re interested . . .”
“You know Eddie’s dad?”
“No! I don’t know him. Not know know. But, half this job, half of it’s trying to raise the money. I mean, I tried hundreds, maybe thousands of potential sponsors. I lose track. And he was, you know. He was one of them.”
“You told him I’d be here.”
He shuffled his feet. “I, um, might have. I thought, maybe, if he knew there was a Registry presence, he’d take it more seriously. I was, you know, kind of surprised to talk to him, to be honest. That’s rare. And he’s notoriously, ah . . .” he spent a moment looking for the word, “difficult.”
“He’s a crook,” said Angel.
“Well. Yeah.”
“This guy,” she told me, “Eddie Senior, or whatever he is—he’s like the Jeffrey Dahmer of businessmen. Crawled out from under more lawsuits than anybody in America, or so he claims.”
“Is this true?”
Silverman nodded.
“His big trick,” Angel said, “is, you work for him, you do some job—then he tells you he’s not going to pay. Or he’s going to pay you half. Whatever. He’s got money. Means his lawyers can go longer than yours can. Most people just give up.”
“Charming. And he’s the guy you want to fund you?”
“He was . . . a possibility,” said Silverman. “But, like I say, he’s kind of difficult.”
He pretended to adjust his camera settings.
“You told him that you’d got connections, though? In the Registry.”
“Um.”
“And let me guess. Your connections gave you my itinerary. Before they’d even given it to me. And you gave it to Ballington. We getting warm now?”
“Well.” His feet were doing their very own little soft-shoe shuffle, while the rest of him sat, frozen stiff.
“It might be worse than that,” he said at last.
“Oh, Jesus.”
“I might have implied I was, ah, kind of a colleague. Not in Field Ops, obviously. I mean, I didn’t say it outright. But he, he might have inferred . . . And I might have got you sent here. Can’t say for sure. Might have, ah, suggested—at the Registry—just told them it was, you know. Kind of a thing here.”
“Kind of a thing.”
“Um . . . like I could see, you know, the drama. The potential. And . . .”
“The Registry, and the Ballingtons.”
“Look,” he said. “It’s tough, being freelance. Trying to make the funding. You’ve got two seconds till they put the phone down, and you just say anything to keep their interest, and . . .”
“You get the money?”
“No.”
“Oh dear.”
“In fact, till today, I thought they’d just forgotten about it.” He managed a weak smile. “Guess not, huh?”
Chapter 33
All in the Prep