Stray

by Evan Fuller

  14.

  Contrition

  The journals were useless, a labyrinth of half-intelligible ramblings that by now had Emery convinced his late cousin may very well have been mad. There was barely anything in the pages that made sense, and nothing at all that got him any closer to Redemption. He leafed through them until his eyes were sore and an ugly headache was knocking on his temples and he couldn’t remember why he’d brought them down here in the first place. Then he gathered them up and dropped them all back into the accordion file from which they had been extracted, taking little care to ensure they were in the proper order. It was good to see the bare surface of the desk again, at least. He groaned as he leaned over to gather up the other files piled on the floor. He’d drive himself as mad as Garis if he didn’t get them locked back up where they came from. He dropped one on his way up the stairs—he’d return for it after the rest were away.

  There was a dark wooden door at the top of the staircase that remained locked at all times. Emery tried to press the files against it for support as he went into his pocket to retrieve the key, but at the first touch, the door creaked open into the dim-lit room. A cloud of dust danced slowly across the slice of light bleeding in at the edge of the curtain. What in the name…

  He dropped the files on the floor without a second thought as he climbed the top step and passed through the doorway. The iron bolt jutted from the door in the locked position, just above the knob. But the corresponding part of the door frame was splintered: someone had forced the door open. Confusion condensed into panic. He fumbled for the light.

  The other files were unmolested, of course; there was little value to them anyway. He hurried across the bare wood floor to the chest, fighting off the wave of dizziness that assailed him as he neared it. The lock was in place; if the intruder had gotten to it, they’d used more subtlety here than with the door. Shaking hands fumbled with the combination and flung open the lid. He did a quick inventory; everything was present except—the book and the pocket watch. Damnit. He’d left them on the table. It hadn’t occurred to him that anyone would come up here.

  He whirled to face the table. The book was there—what use would an illiterate have with common-looking book?—but the white-gold pocket watch and its chain were nowhere to be found. He looked on the floor around the table, but it was futile: of course they were gone. He took a moment to compose himself before descending the staircase. There were a few people in the kitchen—he didn’t see their faces. “Basement,” he said. “Now.” They followed him down.

  Leila, Oliver, Miren, and then Lydia with Carrot and Bustle and Geneva. Worried faces all around; his displeasure must be apparent. “We’re missing someone, aren’t we.” Deep breath. “Has anyone seen Salvador?”

  “Not since I dropped off his breakfast,” Miren began. “I’m sure he’s still in his room waiting for you to let him out; I’ll go…”

  “Emery,” Lydia interrupted. “What’s wrong?”

  “Someone kicked in the door to the top level and took something… something very valuable.” He locked eyes with Leila; she’d only been here just over a week, and he didn’t know her well enough to say for sure she hadn’t done it. But she returned his stare with earnest confusion. Of course it was Salvador.

  “Valuable?” Oliver cocked his head. “I thought the top level was full of old papers and stuff.”

  “Mostly. There are a few other items as well, though, heirlooms my cousin left. They’re of immense sentimental significance… and, well, more than a little monetary value.”

  “Well,” Miren said, “I can go find him and ask him about it.”

  “Actually, Lydia, if you wouldn’t mind.” Miren looked affronted, but she and Salvador were too close for his comfort. “And don’t ask him anything, just bring him down here when you find him.”

  They waited in terse silence till Lydia descended the staircase a minute later. “He’s not in his room,” she reported. “I haven’t seen him anywhere.”

  Emery pressed his fingers against closed eyelids. It was going to be a long evening. “Alright, let’s play hide and seek, then. I need everyone to help search the house until we find him, and I need to get back what he stole from upstairs. It’s a fancy-looking little pocket watch on a chain. And please, for the love of God, be careful with it. I’m going to make sure he’s not still lurking around on the top floor.”

  “Emery.” Miren touched his arm. “When you find him, you’re not going to—”

  “I’m going to throw him down the manhole and tell him to find his way out. He can have a flashlight and a map, if I’m feeling generous. Green was right, I shouldn’t have taken him in.”

  The top level of the estate was far smaller than the others. The unfinished wood and single lightbulb and little circular windows and steeply slanted ceiling generally gave the space a whimsical air; presently, these same features felt claustrophobic, threatening. The light that dangled from the ceiling illuminated only the room’s center; the far corners were ink-black. Emery had to go back down to his room to find a flashlight. When he returned, he found the attic cluttered with files and boxes but devoid of life. He pulled the door shut behind him, though he wouldn’t be able to lock it until he had time to repair the jamb.

  “It’s like he’s disappeared,” Oliver reported when he reached the main level. “We’ve searched the whole house. Bathrooms, closets, everything.”

  “I found this on my bed,” Miren said. She produced the watch and chain, which Emery examined closely. They appeared to be undamaged. Thank God.

  “That’s good, at least.” Emery had no idea why he’d have stolen it and then left it behind, but at least the watch was safe. “Did he leave a note with it, or anything to indicate where he was going?”

  “Umm. He can’t write, Emery.”

  “Right.”

  “I checked your bedroom too,” Lydia announced as she rejoined them. “There’s no sign of him anywhere.”

  If he had left the house, it could mean one of two things. The ideal possibility was that he’d found his way out via the sewers and spared Emery the trouble. Likelier he’d struck out into the city. The consequences of that… there was nothing to be done for it now, so he tried not to think about it. “Hopefully he had a change of heart, returned the watch, and decided he’d do well—”

  The doorbell rang. It wasn’t the happy two-tone chime of the bell Lydia or Juliet used at the front door; this was the long, low sound announcing a visitor at the outer gate. It was not someone who normally came calling. “Lydia,” he said very slowly, “I need you to take everyone to the hiding place right away, please. And I need all of you to remain perfectly quiet.”

  “Yeah, no talkin’, loudmouth,” Geneva told Carrot.

  “Starting now, please.” Emery crossed the room to the foyer and slipped into his coat and boots. He waited until everyone had descended the stairs before flipping the hidden switch and reaching for the front door. The low bell rang again.

  It was after sunset, and from the front door he couldn’t discern who his visitor was. He strode quickly across the yard, praying he wouldn’t find Salvador with a complement of Unity officers, and undid the latch to the gate. “Sir Esposti!” M. Oburumu’s enormous smile shone in the night. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “Not at all, Maestro.” He was well accustomed to lying by now. “Please, come in.”

  He led the maestro inside and into the estate’s living room, the one he had not used since his party. “Have a seat. Can I get you anything to drink?”

  “Milk would be splendid, thank you.” He set his briefcase on the floor and sank into the same massive chair where Green had sat when he’d brought Salvador. What if the boy had somehow hidden in the house, and he emerged while M. Oburumu was here? “You have a lovely home.”

  Emery forced a smile. “Lovelier than I know what to do with, I assure you. My second cousin, who owned the house before I did, had tastes to match his fortune.” A creak in the
floorboards. “Let me go get you a glass.”

  His hands were shaking as he entered the kitchen; he spilled the glass the first time and had to rinse and refill it. He set it down on the table next to the maestro’s chair. “It’s good of you to come by. How have you been?”

  “Quite well, thank you. These are remarkable days, are they not? Your circle’s expedition leaves in just a week if I’m not mistaken. It must be very exciting for you.”

  “Exciting for sir Rizzo’s campaign for appointment, at least.” The joint expedition between the Roccetti and Vorteil underscored Rizzo’s central goal of circle cooperation, and he just so happened to be its organizer and chief funder.

  The maestro cleared his throat. “I was actually visiting to inquire as to how you’ve been.”

  Emery shrugged. “I’ve been alright, I guess.”

  M. Oburumu nodded. “Emery—may I call you Emery?—I received word that you have discontinued your counseling sessions. As I’m sure you’re aware, this violates the terms of your academic probation, and the collegio has revoked your student status for the term.”

  “Well aware.” He tried not to sound harsh as he continued, “That’s why you haven’t seen me in class this week.”

  “Of course. If I may be so forward as to ask, what motivated this decision?”

  “Dr. Mari is malicious. She was accusatory and supremely disrespectful of my privacy, and I’m not willing to sit in a room with her again. And to be honest, Maestro, it’s not an enormous loss. My coursework and I haven’t been getting along too well for a while. You know I’ve been performing poorly.”

  “And you know,” M. Oburumu replied, “that it is well within your power to do better. The quality of your work in our Gateway course was superb, and even last term, the work you actually turned in was of consistently outstanding quality. Dr. Mari has expressed to the collegio faculty her concern that you may be struggling with a substance abuse problem.”

  So it was that again. He didn’t have the energy to deal with the same charges right now. “She expressed the same concern to me. And I don’t really know how to reply to that, except to ask you this. I’ll admit I’ve come to class distracted and bone-tired, and that’s disrespectful of me and I’m sorry. But Maestro, in all the times you’ve seen me have I ever appeared to be under the influence of anything? You know me much better than Dr. Mari; you’d be able to tell.”

  The maestro considered that for a moment. A shadow shifted in Emery’s periphery; he slowly turned; it was nothing. “I suppose that is true,” he conceded at last. “But you have failed to offer another explanation for your performance. Is there anything going on that we at the collegio should be aware of?”

  The faintest sound of a voice upstairs. “Not that I can think of.” He wiped the sweat from his brow. It was cool in the room.

  “Then you must at least understand the cause for our concerns.”

  “I understand. But I really don’t know what to tell you. Do you have children, maestro?”

  “I have two nieces whom I love as dearly as if they were my own daughters. As for children, my wife and I…” he cleared his throat. “There was a day last term—in fact, our first class. I had to end your session early; I’m not sure if you recall.”

  Emery nodded; it was the day Timothy had arrived.

  “I was summoned to Rittenhouse General to receive the results of some tests… my wife and I, it appears, will not be having any children by traditional means, at least.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” He’d never known this about the maestro. He bowed slightly, allowing a moment of silence before returning to his subject. “Let’s take your nieces as an example. Let’s say one of them is doing something, and it’s expected of her as what she’s supposed to be doing at a point in her life. And she’s doing it, and she’s just not happy doing it. You know? There’s no specific reason, she’s just unhappy.” He was scrambling for words. “And she really wanted to stop. What would you do, if the choice was yours?”

  “I can’t say for sure.”

  “What I’m trying to say is, maybe it’s good that I’m not in school this term. I need some time to get my head screwed on straight, to think about what I want to do. Maybe that will involve me returning to the collegio once I figure it out, maybe it won’t. But for the time being, it seems useless for me to remain enrolled if I’m not in a mental position to really make much out of it.”

  M. Oburumu nodded. “I see. Well, I clearly can’t force you to return. But I hope you will reconsider, Emery. I truly believe you can do anything you put your mind to. If you change your mind and desire to re-enroll for the term, I will see to it that the administration facilitates your return. If there is ever anything you need to tell someone, I hope you feel comfortable approaching me.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Maestro. I—”

  A loud crashing sound from downstairs. What were they doing? Maybe the maestro hadn’t heard—

  “What was that?”

  Oh no oh no oh no “Umm… it must have been my housekeeper. She was helping me sort some papers in my study, and I asked her to excuse us so we could speak in private. Lydia!”

  He heard her ascending the stairs a moment later. “I’m sorry about that,” she said. “A bit of a slip.”

  “I’d like you to meet sir Oburumu. He was my maestro at the collegio until, well, this past week. M. Oburumu, this is Lydia Varun, without whose services this estate would doubtless be a shambles by now.”

  They shook. “Good to meet you,” the maestro said.

  “It’s an honor. Sorry again about the noise. I was trying to find a twenty-rai stone I’d dropped earlier and had to prop a dresser up to look under it…” Another bang from downstairs. “And there it goes,” she said without missing a beat, adding a convincing sigh.

  “Well, I shall leave you to find it. Thank you for the milk, Emery, and for the pleasure of your company. I should be returning to my wife. Have a delightful evening, and please consider what I said.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” Emery offered.

  “I’m quite sure I can find my way.” The maestro smiled again, then opened his briefcase and produced a tablet from inside it. “I took the liberty of responding to this. You are no longer enrolled at the school and thus will not receive a grade, but I thought you might be interested to read my remarks.” Bewildered, Emery accepted it. “Goodnight, Emery. I hope to see you soon.”

  When the door closed behind the maestro, Emery closed his eyes and exhaled. “Nice save,” he said to Lydia. “Thanks. Give me just a minute.”

  “Sure.”

  He cast a glance at the tablet. It was his written response from class, with the maestro’s own neat lettering beneath it.

  For this very reason, it is imperative that young persons such as yourself seize positions of civic leadership. But what is left, absent the prejudices that sustain our internal divisions, to prop up the walls that separate Rittenhouse from the outside? Are we prepared to accept implications of admitting that all persons are worthy of empathy, or does that recognition end at our city’s borders?

  I trust that you will erase this message after reading.

  Dazed, Emery returned his attention to Lydia. “Now, what in the world is going on down there?”

  –

  “You don’ be mean like that to girls,” Leila’s brother Bustle was telling the purebloods. “Leila an’ Shana told me so if a boy ever says that to a girl you gotta teach ‘em.”

  “You’re right,” the skinny white pureblood who called hisself Emery said back, “Carrot shouldn’t be saying things like that. But if he does, you should tell me or Lydia instead of taking it upon yourself to ‘teach him.’ I really don’t understand why all of you were even talking to begin with.” Emery breathed out long and hard. “Need I impress upon all of you how very, very bad it would have been if the maestro had realized you were here? Worse, what if it was someone else who was deliberately inspecting for secrets? That c
ould happen any day, and judging by how you all behaved just now, we’re going to be in more than a bit of trouble if it does.”

  Everyone was all wound up, with that mean boy Salvador breaking in upstairs then running away. They should probably all chew some poppy and settle down, that’s what Mama and Earl did when they were wound up, but Emery said none of that here. Lydia stood up. “Early bedtime tonight,” she said to the young’uns. “All three of you.”

  “How early?” the little girl asked.

  “Now, Geneva. You should know better than to be antagonizing Carrot when we’ve told you not to make a sound.”

  All of them grumped and grumbled but Lydia was mad as hell and having none of it. Leila decided not to make her angry if she could help it. Not that she couldn’t beat her up (Lydia was taller than her but real soft) but just because if she did have to beat her up that might get her and Bustle kicked out. Leila was pretty sure she could beat anybody up. She still shivered when she thought about Missus Ebony.

  “Wanna go to bed?” Bustle asked. “Since I gotta anyway.”

  “You gotta ‘cause you were a brat,” she told him. “I already told you, Bustle, you gotta do what the purebloods say if we wanna stay here. You go to bed an’ think about that. I’m gonna get some more of that ice cream stuff, then I’ll come up.”

  “Bring me up some!”

  “No, Bustle. You’ll get sweets if you ever learn to behave.”

  She came back up when she was done with the ice cream (it was darn good, Bustle was missing out) and got into bed. He wasn’t asleep, of course, he was waiting for her. Leila wondered how he’d learn to sleep without her around. “I really wanted that ice cream,” he whined.

  “I really want you to do as I say. Your dumb butt is really gonna get itself in some mean trouble. Bustle…” Should she tell him now? “Sometime I may have to go somewhere, and I gotta know you’ll be good when I’m not looking after you.”

  “You don’t gotta go nowhere,” he objected. “We got the bes’ food we ever ate here, and Missus Ebony and all them can’t find us.”

  “Missus Ebony…” It was good he didn’t get it. For all he knew she’d just got wet. She went over to the dresser and took her ugly skinny knife out.

  “You ain’t s’posed to have that!”

  “I ain’t supposed to do this either.” She pricked her finger and closed her eyes f and a bit later that little ball of white hot light was spinning ‘round on her fingertip.

  “Tha’s the same one you burned that other house down with,” he protested. “Don’t burn this ‘un down too or we’ll never get that ice cream agin.”

  “I’m not gonna burn the house down, I was just thinkin’.” She pinched the cut and let the light fizzle out.

  “You keep tellin’ me to listen to the rules, but you breakin’ them youself.”

  “You’re, Bustle, like miss Lydia says. And I’m your big sister and don’t tell me about rules.” She went back and sat down on the bed again. “Bustle, some rules is meant to keep you safe, and some rules is meant to keep other people safe. And sometimes the people who make the rules are just keepin’ themselves safe from you. It’s a big sister’s job to know which is which, and I’m still tryin’ to decide that. But in the meantime you follow all the rules unless I tell you different.”

  “‘Kay,” he said after he thought about that for a sec. “Leila, promise you won’t go nowhere.”

  “I’m not gonna slip off in the night. If I had to go anywhere I’d tell you first, so don’t get all worried.”

  He nodded. “Tha’s good. Night, sis.”

  She kissed his forehead. “Night. Rest up for a day of good behaving tomorrow.”

  Leila pulled the covers up to their necks. Bustle was out in a minute, but she stayed there with her eyes open, thinking. Truth was she liked to tell herself she could fight anyone, and it was pretty easy looking at that pureblood girl. But she kept remembering back to Teardrop and his friends at the Door, and she knew that really there were bigger stronger people than her and there were times she just couldn’t keep her and Bustle safe. If what the lady with the purple light said was true, she could teach Leila things that’d make her a real lioness, stronger than anybody even if she never grew very big, and then there’d be no one who could hurt Bustle.

  She didn’t want to leave him, but if he was safe enough here for a while, when she got back she’d be able to protect him way better than she could now. And maybe they could even go back and tell Mama she didn’t have to put up with that damn snake Earl anymore. And while she was back near there she’d drop by and teach Teardrop what happens when three grown-up men try to hurt a little kid.

  She’d miss the comfy bed, though. And the good food and sweaters without holes in them and feeling warm all the time. Being warm was even better than the food, she thought. They were never really hungry back home even if they did get sick of all the stupid potatoes. Once she was a real lioness they’d have a farm with fruits and pureblood cows like in Fairmount and everyone would know not to bother it, and they’d never have to look at another potato again. She fell into a half-dream and could almost see the apple trees when the awake part of her brain noticed that the door was creaking open.

  Her eyes were bleary and the only light was coming from out in the hallway, so it took her a moment to see who it was. At first she thought it might be Emery, he was about the same size, but whoever was there didn’t have his hair. He stepped into the room and she could make it out. It was Salvador, the mean boy, the one they thought had run away. She could see him better as he got closer to the bed. Another step and she saw his eyes were looking right at hers. Another step and she saw they were like Earl’s eyes, glassy after he smoked his poppy gum. Another step and she saw that other thing that was always in Earl’s eyes. Want. “Get up.”

  Bustle was in the bed. Leila got up like Salvador told her, but instead of coming toward him she backed the other way, toward the dresser.

  “Don’t move,” he whispered. He was talking thick. She’d left the top drawer open. She reached back into it but stood still like he said. Another step and he was right in front of her. He put a hand on her shoulder.

  “You better leave me alone,” she said louder than he was talking.

  One of his fingers came up to her mouth. “Shh,” he said, pressing it, “Ye’ going to behave for me, kitten?” Another step and he was up against her. Her eyes were wide and his eyes were half-closed and his hands were touching the places where Earl had always looked. She was shaking but still she waited, waited—

  And then he shifted his weight and her arm was free. The knife flashed in the light from the hall. She pushed free and he staggered back. “I told you to leave me alone!”

  He slowly straightened back up. He’d moved at the last second and she’d got his arm and face but not deep enough. She should have stuck him good and not just slashed. He was too buzzed on the gum to feel much. Damn. She held the knife up. “Ye’ little bitch,” he said, just like Teardrop had. She waited, then he jumped.

  The knife got him in the leg, but Salvador was twice as big as her and she just wasn’t strong enough to stop all that weight. Both his feet caught her chest and at almost the same time the edge of the dresser hit her like a brick in the back. She fell forward onto the floor. Everything was blurry and spinning and he had her by the hair. “Let’s try this again, kitten.” Bustle was sobbing someplace behind her. Her own knife was brushing her cheek.

  Then there was a bunch of noise and her head jerked back even harder. She gasped, but finally Salvador’s hand let her hair go. He fell onto the floor beside Leila but he was back up a sec later and she was too hurt and dizzy to turn and see what was happening. “Damnit,” somebody said. There were footsteps all around her head and she tried to drag herself out of the way but couldn’t move. She wondered if the dresser had broke her back. There was a hitting sound and a shout and a pause and some scrambling. Then another grunt and a bang and Salvador was on the
floor again, right beside her.

  “Oliver,” Leila heard Emery’s voice say like rocks on glass, “would you fetch me the revolver?” He sounded as bad as Leila felt. She saw his knee come down near her face, pinning Salvador to the floor by the neck. There were sounds of running down and up the stairs.

  “See if she’s alright. I have to deal with this.”

  Leila felt hands trying to pick her up and oh Brahm it felt like she was dying. She coughed and whoever was lifting her slipped and almost let her fall. Finally she was put back on the bed. It was Lydia. Bustle was still crying and everybody else was out of the room.

  “I wanna see,” she said when she found her lungs.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea—”

  “We thought he was gone last time.” Cough. “I damn well won’t believe it till I see it. Bustle, don’t look out the window.” He closed his eyes. Lydia pulled back the shades.

  It was dark but there was a big moon out. Way down behind the house she could see two tiny figures moving across the yard, one pulling the other. When they moved a certain way she could see a little gleam where the moon caught the silver gun, hard against the other one’s head. There was at least one other person moving with them. They were going toward the manhole where Leila and Bustle had come up.

  They stood still for a moment when they got there. There was what looked like a bit of wrestling and one pushed the other toward the hole. Leila couldn’t see him fall, the hole was ink black and she lost sight of him when he moved over it. After a sec the third person turned on a flashlight and pointed it down in there. They looked down the tunnel for a long time and then Emery began to climb down.

  “Okay.” Leila nodded to Lydia (it hurt to even move her neck) and Lydia pulled the blinds shut. Bustle was laying with the pillow over his head still crying. “You can look now,” she said. He didn’t take the pillow off. She tried to hug him but it hurt too bad to move that much. At least she could feel her arms and legs, though. She didn’t guess her back was broke. But she probably wouldn’t be able to move much for a day or two at least. This never would have happened if she could do the things the lady with the purple light could do.

  “Let’s get a look at you,” Lydia said. Her voice was shaky, like she’d been the one that awful boy was touching. “Where in the name of Jehovah did that knife come from?”

  “He musta snuck it in,” Leila said faintly. “With the poppy gum.”

  –

  He slowly secured the gun behind his back, tightened his belt, and ascended dripping and shaking into the yard. “Oliver, I’m going to need you to fit the manhole with a locking cover first thing tomorrow.”

  “What about tonight?”

  “He won’t be coming back.”

  “Did you… is he still alive?”

  “I made very, very sure he was unfit to climb back up that ladder, and left it at that. The tunnels will finish the job for me, or if he somehow makes it out, his owners from the Arbor will.”

  Oliver was gracious enough not to say anything more on the subject. “Let’s get inside. That’s enough excitement for one night, isn’t it?”

  “One lifetime,” Emery replied. “Remind me never to go against Green’s advice again. And I’m sorry. When he threatened you, that should have been the end of it.” He shivered, and not just from the cold. When he’d left Leila, she’d looked terrible, but it was nothing compared to what would have happened if he hadn’t heard her voice and come running. He’d been halfway up the stairs by the time Salvador knocked her to the floor. The boy had proven far more than merely misguided. Emery should have listened.

  By the time they got inside, Emery had to sit down. He went to the kitchen and collapsed into a chair; he’d need a minute before he could make it upstairs. He hadn’t realized in time that Salvador had that enormous knife. The blade itself had only landed a shallow cut on Emery’s chest. It stung and would probably leave a bit of a scar, but it wasn’t the worst of his worries. As he’d caught Salvador’s arm in both of his own to strip him of the knife, the boy had struck with his other fist and landed a vicious blow to Emery’s side, dead on his old bullet wound. Emery wondered how long the boy had been watching him as he’d lived at the estate, looking for a weakness. Stupid. He should have noticed sooner.

  Where had he been hiding? They’d checked every room of the house, and all the doors were locked by the time he had reappeared. Emery asked Oliver to check the estate for signs of forced entry; he’d help just as soon as he could stand up again. There were a lot of windows.

  “Emery.”

  Miren’s voice came from behind him; he craned his neck but couldn’t turn his whole body. She ran a hand through his hair, leaned over, kissed him urgently. “I didn’t realize we were doing that in public rooms now,” he said when his mouth was his again. He’d been trying for discretion about whatever was going on between them, to keep things simpler with the other housemates. And with Lydia.

  “Sorry,” she said, “I was just so worried.” She circled and took a chair next to him; her eyes betrayed more than worry. “Let me see.” She leaned in to look at the slash visible through his shirt.

  “That’s nothing,” he said, realizing he sounded a bit like a braggart. “I’ll clean it later, but I can’t even feel it. The real winner is this one. He lifted his shirt. An ample bruise was already forming over the scar, sickly purple with splotches of green.

  “Oh, baby—”

  Baby was new. “It’ll be fine. I should probably take it easy on the digging for the next couple days, but it’ll heal.” He’d been taking it too easy on the digging since starting the search for Green’s shipment. He didn’t know how he’d justify the lost time if it turned out to be chasing ghosts. One more mistake.

  “Um.” Whatever was on her mind was making her nervous. “I have something I need to tell you, but I get the feeling this isn’t a good time.”

  “This is a fine time, seeing as I’m kind of rooted in this chair at the moment. What is it?”

  “Well.” More than nervous. Afraid. “I need you to not be angry at me. Just remember that I’m telling you this because I don’t want to hide anything from you.”

  This wasn’t going to be good. “Miren, tell me what’s going on.” He winced at his fatherly tone.

  “Okay.” She inhaled. “When we were searching the house for Salvador today, well, I found him. In the closet in my room.”

  Emery blinked. She waited for him to reply, but he said nothing, and after a long moment she continued. “You said you were going to throw him out, and I couldn’t let that happen because I knew people are looking for him, and if they find him he’s probably going to be killed. So I told him that if he gave the pocket watch back, he could stay in my room. I know these kinds of people, Emery, and there’s nothing they won’t do. I was worried.”

  “And what,” he asked softly, “did you expect would happen when I found out you’d kept him in the house?”

  “I was going to tell you after you cooled off, and see if you’d let him stay. I figured you were just really angry earlier and that you might change your mind once you’d had some time to think about it.”

  Steady breaths. He locked eyes on his faint reflection in the table. At some point in the day Lydia had wiped it clean. “Has it entered your consciousness what he tried to do to Leila? Have you grasped that yet?” Dr. Hanssen’s voice in his mouth. This was what disdain tasted like.

  “If I knew that was going to happen, I would have told you he was hiding there. I’ll apologize to her. I’m so sorry—”

  Her fingers brushed his hand. The handle of the revolver pressed into his back. He slowly retracted his arm. He didn’t meet her eyes. “Miren, darling. I’d like very much for you to get the hell away from me right now.”

  There was another apology but the words all crumbled together. He followed her footsteps through the rooms and up the stairs. A soft click as the bedroom door closed. Oliver reentered the room a minut
e later. “Everything’s secure,” he reported. “I don’t see how he could have gotten in.”

  “He didn’t. He never left.” Emery stood up, cringing as he took a slow breath. He wouldn’t cry out. “I’ll be down in the tunnel. I have some catching up to do.”

  “Emery. I know digging really makes you feel fulfilled or whatever, but you look like you can barely stand up right now. And it’s after ten at night. Why not go rest up and we’ll work on it tomorrow?”

  “We’ll work on it tomorrow too.” He stepped past. “You know where to find me if you need anything.”

  “Come on—”

  He tuned out the rest of the objection. He donned the rubber boots and work coat at the back door; there was a flashlight in the coat’s pocket. By the time he’d descended the ladder into the sewer he was doubled over, gasping. The injury was his own damn fault, like so much else. Fine. He’d work twice as hard to make up for it.

  As he walked the length of the half-finished tunnel he realized he’d forgotten a matchbook for the lantern. Forget it; he would work by the flashlight. His eyes adjusted more slowly than usual. He hadn’t been down here in too long. He’d been distracted. He was running behind.

  He laid the flashlight on the ground and took up the nearest shovel. They’d dug themselves to what appeared to be another impasse, a vertical mass of debris that looked like a sheer wall. Emery bored into it, wondering what kind of collapse had caused this. He struck at the packed dirt and rubble again and again. Before long he was wheezing. Try harder, damnit, you’ve spent too long being weak.

  Another blow against the rock. In the dark he saw Salvador’s face: Salvador with the cruel black knife and Leila’s hair in his hand; Salvador thrashing in the running water, begging. He’d made the wrong choice. He should have killed him outright. The face morphed to Miren’s and Timothy’s and then it shifted again and he knew the form was Seth’s, even if he couldn’t recall his features. How much of his life was defined by dead cousins? He wondered what Michael Garis had looked like. He’d only ever seen photographs, and he failed to call them to mind. He dropped the shovel, and as he doubled over to retrieve it he thought he might vomit. He groped around until he found the handle. It was too dark.

  A few more pushes and the shovel was bouncing off solid stone. He lowered it and put his hand against the surface. His fingers were numb from the cold and it took a moment to realize what they were detecting. Asphalt, not stone, standing vertical. Had the whole ceiling collapsed in one piece? He couldn’t make sense of it. He raised the shovel again with protesting arms and began digging around the flat patch. He cleared a larger and larger space but never reached its edge. Finally he picked the flashlight up off the ground. It was a sheer wall.

  Where the spare tools were scattered on the floor, he traded the shovel for a wrecking bar. For this he should probably use gloves, but it would take far too long to go back up for them. He found a rag among the tools and wrapped it around the bar to make a handle. It would have to do. He returned to the wall with the flashlight in his other hand and placed it to the side, angled up. He took the steel bar in both hands and placed the tip against the wall. He tightened his grip, pulled back, thrust.

  The strike did nearly nothing, leaving a pathetic little chip in the surface. He stepped back and flung it harder. Harder. Again. On the fifth blow, he would have sworn the point had struck himself from the way his body shook. He stumbled and held the bar against the floor of the tunnel to steady himself. Again. Long twisting splints were threading their way through his abdomen. His insides were ready to burst. Again.

  He could see his work now but the faces still wouldn’t leave his mind. His arms were trembling and he gasped for breath and what did a heart attack feel like? Again. Again. The bar skipped off the wall. Again. And suddenly it was through.

  He was so convinced he was imagining it that he had to turn the flashlight off. He closed his eyes and opened them again. It was still there: a pinhole of light, cutting into the black of the tunnel from beyond the wall. He drew a long nauseous breath and raised the bar. Again. Again. Again. His whole body was trembling now.

  The next time he lowered the wrecking bar, he’d opened a gap the size of his open hand. He reached into it and felt around—more cold metal—then withdrew his arm and leaned forward. With both numb hands against the wall, he lowered himself to peer through the hole. The metal was the railing of a service staircase that continued downward into a cavernous space whose floor was far below where he stood. The cavern was shaped like Powelton Market, a snaking series of levels stacked upon one another. They were alive with electric light.