Before she could finish another sentence, the man had been replaced by the panther. It roared and charged around its cell, flinging its bed rags across the space. It tore one of the benches from its bolted foundations and swatted it against the bars, then flung itself against them. Twice. Three times. Joy fought down the fear she felt at the animal’s rage. She didn’t think it was possible for Larch to actually break through the bars, but if he did, she felt sure she would be dead in seconds.
She didn’t hear the gate clang behind her, so she was startled when the two guards came running up the hall. They were carrying electrified batons.
“No, no,” she said over the sound of Larch’s tantrum. “I’ve just given him some bad news. He’ll calm down once he’s absorbed it.”
The guards were clearly skeptical, but Larch was already running out of steam. He had stopped throwing himself against the bars and was simply pacing back and forth, eyeing Joy as he did so.
“We’ll be watching,” said one guard, and they retreated back down the hall.
When the gate clanged, Larch was back in his human form, still pacing. “I didn’t expect it of you, Wilkins,” he said. “I knew you were an instrument of the overlords, but you have the blackness inside you.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” said Joy.
“I’m not talking about your skin, or your race,” said Larch. “I’m talking about your soul. The overlords of this world, they serve the darkness. The demons we have brought here are simply a reflection of what lies inside your presidents and kings; they are no worse than those who already rule.”
“That doesn’t explain to me why you would bring the demons here,” said Joy.
“So that the people will see the reflection of darkness in their leaders, and band together to destroy them all, demons and tyrants alike. To liberate them all.”
Joy had more than once thought that Larch was strange, but she had never glimpsed the level of insanity that he was displaying now. Spittle flew from his mouth; his aura swirled with red and yellow.
“Why don’t we go back to the beginning,” she said. “Back to when you met Chuck Hawkins, in Auckland. He was attending the New Zealand School of Cooking, and you were living in the zoo.”
“Yes.” Larch continued pacing. “I lived in the zoo. I was born in a crevice of stone—not real stone, of course, but shaped and painted concrete with a clay surface. My mother took refuge there to give birth. That was my entire world for a few hours, until the keepers moved us all behind the scenes for observation. I didn’t know that, of course. All I knew was that the world had changed from shadowed and red to white and bright. Too bright. But still small. My whole life was supposed to stay like that, cramped. Confined. Like this fucking cell!” He kicked the broken bench, and Joy noticed that his leg was bleeding. Bruises were crowning all over his body.
Joy was impatient to hear about Chuck Hawkins, but she decided to trust that Larch was getting there. “But you had a way out,” she said.
“I did. Once, when I was just weeks old, I changed, and some visitors reported that there was a toddler in the panther exhibit. By the time the keepers got there I had changed back. They searched the exhibit and examined each of us, afraid that we had eaten a child. It was the first time it was really clear to me that the humans were more valuable than us. Before, the exhibit was just home. After that, it was a prison.
“I found ways to slip out. It took many tries. It helped to have hands. It helped that the enclosure was outdoors. I found ways to slip out, to find clothes. At first I just looked around the zoo. That was as big a world as I could conceive of. Then one day I wandered into Auckland proper. I met Chuck. He was cooking meat on a grill, and he offered me some.”
“Was he a member of the Heartstoppers at that time?”
“That’s not what we call ourselves,” said Larch. “We’re the Four Corners. To show that we cover the entire world, but that the world is not limitless, do you understand? Even the wide world, millions of times larger than that enclosure at the zoo, is a prison.”
“A prison kept by dark overlords. Is that right?”
“Of course you deny it. You serve them,” said Larch. “You yourself are a prisoner, but you fool yourself that you are free.”
Joy glanced at Gray. She was finding it difficult to believe that even someone as odd as Larch could believe everything that he was saying. But Gray just raised an eyebrow and nodded.
“Where did you learn all this? From Chuck?”
Larch scoffed and shook his head. “Chuck was weak. We came to the Four Corners together, but his faith wavered. He tried to leave, once. The Handbook is very clear; no one may leave the group.”
“Tell me about the Handbook.”
Larch seemed about to refuse, but then sighed. “It was written by Father Light. It’s forbidden to own a copy. I’ve read it twice, but I had to pass it along as soon as I finished it.”
“There was no geas on it?”
“On the book? No.”
“Who taught you to read?”
“The brothers.” Larch seemed to think that this explained everything.
“In Auckland.”
“Yes.”
“Here’s where we make our trade,” said Joy. “I want at least half a dozen names from you. If they check out, we can put a hold on liquidating your family—for now.”
Larch sat down on one of the benches. He rubbed his forehead, then stared at his hand. “I don’t hate humans,” he said. “I like being a human. I like human women.”
We’re losing him, Joy thought to herself. “Fredrick—Pô—”
“Those aren’t my names.”
“What should I call you?”
“I don’t know yet. My name will come out of the great turmoil.”
“OK,” said Joy. “I need other names. Will you give them to me?”
He gave her eight names. Gray nodded his approval, and they left Larch slumped on the bench.
“That was cold,” said Gray as they made their way back to the gate.
“What? The thing about his family?” Joy lowered her voice. “That was a bluff. I would never do something like that.”
“Ah,” said Gray. “So that’s what it sounds like when someone is lying to themselves.”
Joy and Gray combined their efforts to get the word out about Larch’s list of names. Joy let Gray handle FBMA contacts while she handled GUMP, the New Zealand Police, and a few calls that were less than official. It was two hours before they were free to talk to the next prisoner, well past the designated time for interviews.
“I don’t know why you’d even bother with this one,” said their Philly guard. “He hasn’t said word one since he was brought in. They ask him what he wants in the mess, he just points. He wouldn’t even speak to his lawyer.”
“I’m really sorry,” said Joy. “We wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important.” She smiled. Joy couldn’t say whether or not she had a nice face, but she’d been told that was the case, and she knew she was fit. Flirting was pretty near the bottom of her list of work strategies, but she needed to get this done tonight, before Flood caught wind of it.
The guard grumbled a bit more, but he made a call to one of the guards on the fifth floor. “Take Interview Six,” he said after he hung up. “You owe me one.”
“Thank you,” said Joy. “I appreciate you getting that photo out on the wire too.”
The guard led them to Interview 6 and let them in. “Same deal here; cameras, but no audio. This one’s quick, but at least he’s human.”
“I know,” said Joy. “I already took him down once.”
“That was you?” The guard’s tone changed. “Much respect,” he said, and flashed her a grin as he locked them in.
“Remember,” Joy said, “you’re the lead on this one.”
“I don’t have any questions for this guy,” said Gray.
“I just mean that this is your interview, if anybody asks.”
“Becaus
e you’re not supposed to be talking to him.”
“You said you’d help.”
“I didn’t say I’d stop pointing out that it’s a bad idea.”
Joy was tired, but getting into an argument with Gray was counterproductive. She sat at the interview table and tried to gather her thoughts. To get through to him she needed to have all her facts lined up. She needed to believe what she was saying. She shut her eyes for a moment, thinking of meditating while she waited, but she had barely begun to even out her breathing when the door opened.
The guard—one from the upper floors, Joy assumed—held his baton between the prisoner’s shoulder blades to walk him forward. The prisoner took in Joy, Gray, and the room without any change in his expression or his bloodred aura. Idly, Joy tried to recognize him, but whatever the Emissary had done to her brain did not extend to her henchmen.
The guard maneuvered him into the chair opposite Joy and locked his hands to the steel ring on the table. “Have a nice chat,” said the guard, and left the room.
“Hello,” said Joy.
The man stared at her without interest.
“Would you like to tell me your name, or shall I just refer to you as…assassin number one?” The geas wouldn’t allow her to use the phrase “Sons of Order.” Joy was disappointed, but not surprised.
The man’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t speak.
“You were sent here by the woman who calls herself the Emissary to kill me. You, or one of your brothers, were also responsible for the death of Martin Shil.”
The man looked at his hands.
“I’m boring you, I suppose. You already know these things. You already know that I know these things. But there are things I know that I don’t think you know that I know.”
The man raised his eyebrows. Gray coughed.
“You know what I mean,” Joy said. “For instance, I know that you are one of—how many? Dozens? Hundreds? Did you grow from a test tube, or do…” She tried to say, “the goddesses of Order,” but the geas wouldn’t let it through, so she tried again. “Do they give birth to litters of you, like puppies?” She didn’t wait for him not to respond. “I know that you and your brothers have made at least four attempts on my life by now. I haven’t figured out what the idea was behind the Emissary trying to seduce me with her vision of the worlds of order, and her…her face. Was she hedging her bets? Martin was fairly easy for you to kill, I suppose.” She tried to say something about how Bebe must have given them Martin’s name, but it wouldn’t come out; when she tried to force it, she could only manage a cough.
“Other dimensions are real. That much has become obvious.” She was relieved to get that one through. Her own deductions would have led her to that conclusion even without the aid of the Thirteenth Rib, she supposed. “You’ve come from one of them. One or both of my case objectives bumps up against your organization’s goals. You—not as an individual, but the people you represent—are responsible, directly or indirectly, for either the actions of the Four Corners group or the disappearance of Carla Drake, or both. You killed Martin in the hopes of derailing our investigation. When that didn’t work, you came after me.”
The man sat up, licked his lips, opened his mouth wide—and yawned.
“Do you want to know why I think you’re so calm?” said Joy. “I think that…you”—she had tried to say “order,” but couldn’t—“have a mole in the FBMA. Possibly more than one. Possibly you’ve replaced some of our people with alternate versions of themselves, from one of the dimensions that you control.”
“Joy,” said Gray. “Can we—”
“Just a minute,” she said. “I’m almost done.” She stood. “We’re going to track you down,” she said. “Your own likeness is already circulating. If there are any more of your brothers here, we’ll find them. We’ll find your moles too. And your plans for”—she choked on the word “invasion,” but kept talking—“your plans are going to fail. I’ll see to it.” She turned back to Gray. “We’re finished here.”
He rapped on the door. The room was silent until the guard came to let them out.
“Didja get what you needed?” he asked once the door was shut.
“I think so,” said Joy.
The guard shook his head. “Didn’t look to me like he said a word.”
“I think we’re good,” said Joy.
“Must be one of those body-language readers? Is that it?”
“Something like that.”
Gray didn’t say a word until they were in the lobby reception area.
“Nothing,” he said. “You put my name on that interrogation, an interrogation that Flood expressly forbid you from ever conducting, and we got nothing. Not a goddamn word.”
“Come outside,” said Joy. It was a breezy night on Arch Street, so Joy stood close to Gray as she spoke.
“I didn’t expect him to say anything,” she said. “That interview was entirely for your benefit.”
“What the hell does that mean?” he asked.
“How did I sound in there? When I was summing up my conclusions. Did I tell any lies? Did I sound at all unsure?”
Gray crossed his arms. “Just because you believe something—”
“Did I lie?”
He sighed. “You were a little shaky on that last bit. Your threats and promises. Other than that…”
“Other than that, I was rock solid.”
“You seemed convinced, yes.”
“He didn’t argue, either, did he?”
“Please. He wouldn’t have argued if you had told him his eyebrows had turned into caterpillars.”
“Fine. But you see that I’m convinced. Did I convince you? Because that favor you just did for me in there—a favor which I appreciate and will happily pay back when I can—is only the beginning. I’m going to need more of your help.”
Gray shook his head.
“Tom. Please. For Martin’s sake.”
Gray flinched, but he let his arms fall to his sides. “If there’s a mole in the bureau, why are you so sure that you can trust me? We barely know each other.”
“I’m willing to trust my instincts in your case.”
“Instincts? Fate of the world, you’re going with instinct? Come on, at least tell me I have a nice, trustworthy aura or something.”
“Honestly, the person I’ve met lately whom your aura most resembles is the librarian-panther. I’m trusting you in spite of that.”
“What is it you have in mind?”
“Before I can tell you that, we have one more prisoner to talk to.”
The first recipe Zelda had ever mastered was for what was widely known as an avoidance potion, something Zelda thought of as her Leave-Me-Alone concoction. Invisibility as physical effect was a difficult spell to pull off, and the spells were generally not safe to apply directly to humans—either internally or externally—but avoidance was easy, effective, and made a nice mixer with vodka, gin, or chocolate milk.
Avoidance magic basically meant that so long as you weren’t drawing attention to yourself, everyone would simply fail to notice you. Perfect if, say, you had been recently released from juvenile hall, were working in a fast food restaurant while you tried to un-derail your life, and didn’t want anyone from your high school to recognize you. There had been a time in Zelda’s past when she drank three or four avoidance potions a day. In her late teens, Zelda had wanted desperately to disappear, but didn’t really have anywhere to disappear to.
Sitting in the intensive care unit in a chair surrounded by wires regulating tubes that connected to plastic boxes that beeped was an ideal spot. The nurses came and went without once glancing in her direction. At one point a pair of doctors came in, had two simultaneous conversations about Hector’s recovery and someone’s divorce, all the while standing right in front of her. If she had stood and asked a question, they would have had no choice but to notice her; avoidance magic only worked if you didn’t want to be noticed and didn’t do anything that would set off an act
ual alarm, like break into someone’s house or try to ransack a pharmacy. It wasn’t a shield for illegal activity; it was just the ultimate accessory for wallflowers-by-choice.
Zelda wasn’t sure how long she’d been here. She’d gone home after speaking to Joy—even started to pack a bag—but couldn’t figure out where she should go. She’d decided that she had better eat something, but ended up throwing out a pot of noodles because the sight of them made her sick. She’d gone to bed, knowing she had to work in the morning, but she couldn’t sleep. So she’d thrown together a potion and come back to the hospital, into the ICU, where no one but the staff and the immediate families were supposed to be.
Hector hadn’t moved in the entire time she’d been here. His breathing was steady, although it seemed shallow, even for a sleeping person. The broken side of him was splinted and bandaged beyond recognition. It was as if he were a man made out of cloth and plastic, just waiting for the finishing layers of skin and hair on the right side of his body.
She started and realized that she had been dozing in the chair, dreaming a Hector made out of bandages. She breathed deep, uncurled her legs from under her, and stood next to the bed. She grasped the cast that covered Hector’s hand in her own. The plaster was rough but warm. He was breathing through a tube, still. His eyes moved beneath his eyelids, and she hoped that he was dreaming of good things.
“Hey,” she said, and then she waited. She didn’t expect him to respond, but she wanted to leave him a space in the conversation.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I…this is my fault. I wanted you for a long time, long before you ever seemed to notice me. A long time before that night we were together. But I got used to not wanting things. I guess I learned to make my life small, to keep other people out. It was the only way to live with the curse, and I didn’t have any choice but to live with the curse.”
She paused for the response that wasn’t going to come.
“But you got through,” she said, “and now you’re lying there hurt because of me, and I’m thinking—I’m thinking that living with the curse isn’t living. It’s something I’ve been carrying with me for half my life, and it’s a punishment I deserve. Deserved. But maybe I’ve done my time. I think I might…I think I might deserve a chance to be happy, and I think maybe you are that chance.”
Gooseberry Bluff Community College of Magic: The Thirteenth Rib Page 31
