“And he performed…” Barton trailed off into a smile, took another step toward us, held out his hands to Jackdaw. “He performed perfectly. Kevin? Are you listening to me, Kevin? You performed beautifully.”
Jackdaw cleared his throat and shot a thick wad of spit onto the priest’s face. Barton did not flinch; very gently he raised one arm and wiped the spit away. I kept one eye, meanwhile, on the other men, still up there on the slope. Cook with his arms crossed, eyes narrow. Mr. Maris, hulking and furious, brow furrowed with concentration, waiting for his moment. Waiting for a chance to separate us, to push the boy out of the way so he could tear me to bits.
“So where is it?” Silence from everyone. River rush, distant traffic. Someone honking on southbound 65. “Come on. The boy goes down, performs beautifully, gathers up the evidence. Where is it?”
“Ask the boy,” said Barton, and I said, “I’m asking you.”
“This crazy motherfucker didn’t bring it,” said Cook. He took one step down the slope toward us, and I tightened my grip and he stepped back. “He says he got it out, but he stashed it somewhere on the way up.”
“Why?”
“Because he is confused,” said Barton softly. “He is tired and confused.”
“Because of Luna,” said Jackdaw—not Jackdaw…said Kevin the sophomore, and he didn’t sound tired or confused. He snapped to life again inside the threatening curl of my arm, taking over his own story. “There’s a girl named Luna, a PB, and she was the one who got your precious evidence. She took all the fucking risks, this girl who was born a slave and was a slave her whole life.” His voice was a hot rush, rough with tears, rising with passion, as Barton’s voice had risen. “I told that girl that if she helped me we would get her out, too. But then your people—”
“They ain’t our people,” Cook said.
“Your people—”
Barton shook his head. “We work with various entities—”
“They left her. Left her behind. So I told them…” He rolled his head backwards, and it pushed against my chest. “I told them, go and get that girl and I tell you where I put your fucking envelope.”
Silence. The sun was rising. The ugly water lapped at our feet. Barton stood with his eyes closed, some of that spit still making its slow way down his cheek, over an expression of agony and forbearance.
And then Barton took another step, and I said, “Stop,” but he ignored me. He knelt in the muddy water at our feet, and the brown ripples lapped the hem of his robe, his shoes, his thin brown socks. He spoke with a voice that was soft and charged and urgent, as if he were administering a rite.
“You must reconsider, Kevin. You must. We are talking here about the fate of three million people.”
“I don’t care about three million people. I care about one. You go and get her, and I tell you where it is.”
“We can’t do it,” said Barton. “That plan was years in the making. Years. We can’t just wander into places—”
“She’s dead,” said Officer Cook suddenly. “Okay? Your girl is dead.”
Barton turned to look at the cop, and Maris was looking at him, too. There was a long, brutal stillness. None of them spoke, but in the gloom of the sunrise I could read their silent communion—they hadn’t planned to tell him, afraid of how he would react, what he would do, but now there was nothing left. No other choice. The government had arrived, a monster was in their midst, the situation was at crisis, and so he had been told.
Kevin’s face, meanwhile, had gone slack with astonishment and grief. I felt his narrow rib cage next to mine, felt his grief jump like an electric arc from his heart into mine, and then at last he wailed. The sound that was coming out of poor Kevin was low and long, an animal’s trapped holler. “No,” he was saying, more sound than word. “No…”
Barton, without expression, watched him scream. His pale eyes were lasered in on suffering Kevin: X-raying, filleting, dissecting. I believe that if he could have he would have cut into that boy and torn his secret out by hand.
Cook kept going, sighing, sad. “They found out she helped you get out, and they went and put her down. They made it look like an accident. You know how they do.”
Kevin shook his head, pain evident on his face. Cook’s choice of words was brutal: they put her down. Like a dog—a wolf. Something wild.