by Ty Drago
Then, as he put down the phone, I heard him mutter, faintly but with amusement: “Other stuff …”
I felt like a first-class jerk. I’d just used a guy who’d never been anything but cool to me. I hadn’t known Charles O’Mally long, but he didn’t seem all that complicated. He had an important job, only a small part of which involved the page program. But in many ways, I thought it was his favorite part. He liked playing the “We Redheads Gotta Stick Together” game. It was how he connected—an old guy’s way of feeling young.
I’d seen it before. Every boy who’s ever been a Cub Scout has seen it.
And I’d not only counted on it, I’d twisted it to suit my purpose.
It was something a Corpse would do.
I felt like crap.
The day passed slowly in that empty house. Around noon, I went downstairs to grab some lunch. The kitchen was deserted. It had been a long time since I’d been this alone. I might have enjoyed it if I hadn’t been so on edge.
Then, about an hour before the pages were due back from the Hill, I turned the wrong corner on the third floor and ran right into Greg Gardner.
The dead proctor “whoa-ed,” putting his gray, sticky hands—Type Two—on my shoulders to keep us from knocking each other over. His smell was almost enough to make me wretch. But I’d learned long ago how to hide that urge.
“Hey, Andy!” He held me at arm’s length. God, how I wished he’d get those disgusting hands off of my shoulders! “You look like you’re feeling better.” Then he placed the back of his hand against my forehead.
I nearly gagged.
“You’re not warm,” he remarked. And I wondered if his stolen body could even judge temperature. Probably not. More likely this was just part of his proctor’s Mask.
More fake humanity.
“I’m feeling okay,” I said.
“Glad to hear it. The Capitol awaits.”
Yeah, it does.
Finally, blessedly, he removed his hand from my forehead. “Back to bed, though. If Lex catches you wandering around, he’s liable to think you were faking the whole thing!” Then he laughed. A non-Seer would probably have heard a disarming chuckle. But to my ears it was a lifeless gurgle.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked. “You look a little … green.”
“Fine,” I said. Then, hastily, “Well, better anyway.”
Ever seen a cadaver look suspicious? I have—plenty of times. Gardner wore that look now. It was creepy, so I “escaped” a little by crossing my eyes and examining his Mask. I should probably mention here that I’m not literally crossing my eyes. That’s just what I call it. It’s more like un-focusing your vision, if you know what I mean. You let each eye kind of wander a little bit, separately. It takes practice, but it works.
Gardner’s Mask had one of those “Big Man on Campus” things going on: hair styled but just slightly mussed—unlike Lex’s greasy, insurance salesman perfection. His face was smooth, his cheekbones high.
He reminded me of the Queen, with the oh-so-beautiful visage she liked to show the world. I wondered vaguely if they knew each other.
Gardner said, “Your eyes are glassy all of a sudden. Maybe you should go back to bed.”
“Yeah,” I said.
Treating me to a final, thoughtful look, he headed back the way he’d come.
Something about the whole, brief exchange bothered me. But I ended up labeling it nerves and shrugging it off.
I shouldn’t have.
Lilith Cavanaugh
Lilith Cavanaugh waited in the Szash.
She hated waiting. Once, in the Homeworld, she’d torn apart an underling who’d caused her to suffer boredom in the hours before her coronation. She still recalled with amusement how the minion had begged for his life. And she’d given it to him, hadn’t she? She’d suffered his pathetic existence to continue, even after she’d torn off most of his limbs. She’d kept him alive until the very end.
Delicious.
No, the Queen did not care for waiting.
That’s why, when she felt another presence join her in this telepathic netherworld, she snapped, “Finally!”
The presence—yet another underling, but one whose self-importance had grown unacceptable—remarked, “You sound anxious, sister.”
“You said you would join me at six o’clock,” Lilith growled. “It’s almost seven.”
“My committee meeting ran late.”
A poor lie. Of course the delay had been intentional. This was a game. A contest of wills.
Though not for much longer.
“I appreciate you taking the time. You have news for me?”
“I do. You’ve grown sloppy, sister.”
You should be addressing me as “Mistress” or “Ms. Cavanaugh.” Your familiarity is one of the reasons you need to die … sister. “Have I? How so?”
“One of my minions —”
Your minions? the Queen thought savagely, her outrage rising. Yet in the Szash she was powerless. This “place of communion” was for the mind, not the body—a form of communication bred into, and reserved for, the Royal Caste.
“—serves as a proctor at the Daniel Webster Page Residence, an arrangement that required considerable finesse.”
Finesse, Cavanaugh mused. You killed a proctor and her family to create an opening, which you then used your political clout to fill, all so you could watch for more Seers within the program. You’re not half as clever as you think you are, sister.
“I’m aware of this. Don’t waste my time.”
“Apologies,” Lindsay Micha replied, the word laced with sarcasm. “Tell me, sister, do you happen to know a redheaded human boy who goes by the name of Andy Forbes?”
“No.”
“He’s one of two pages who joined the program just last week. The other is a girl named Kim Baker. Both are sponsored by the same senator. It’s rare for new pages to be brought in mid-term. Virtually unheard of. Did you know that?”
Lilith didn’t reply.
“When my minion informed me of this, I ordered further investigation. He obtained fingerprints for both children … off drinking glasses, I believe. Then my people within the Capitol Police ran those prints. Can you guess what they found?”
“Just tell me.”
“Nothing. Both Forbes and Baker completely checked out.”
Cavanaugh began, “Then what —”
“Except in one database. Seems Andy Forbes has visited DC before. He toured the FBI Headquarters Building with his sixth-grade class. All of those students were fingerprinted, and even entered their own information into the computer … just to see how it’s done. Isn’t that cute?”
“Adorable,” the Queen snarled. “Who is he?”
“William Karl Ritter.”
Cavanaugh stiffened. “Will Ritter is in Washington?”
“Apparently so. And on the recommendation of Senator James Mitchum … a political adversary of mine.”
“And the girl?”
“Nothing. She seems to be exactly who she claims. Except for that fact that she and Ritter arrived together, and with the same sponsor.”
“Describe her,” the Queen commanded.
With a laugh, Micha obeyed.
“It could be Sharyn Jefferson,” mused Cavanaugh. “The hair doesn’t match our reports, but hair is easily changed. In any event, this Kim Baker is undoubtedly an Undertaker.”
“Agreed. Through your bungling, you allowed the Birmelin girl to reach the Undertakers, and now they’ve infiltrated the page program … no doubt in an effort to reach me.”
“Mind your tongue!” the Queen hissed. “I’ll handle this.”
“Don’t bother. I’ve already given the necessary orders. The Ritter boy is headed for the Capitol this evening. He’ll be dead within the hour. We’ll get the girl later.”
“More of your heavy-handed methods! We need to find out how much they know before elimination!”
“I disagree. And, as this is my city, I w
ill deal with it. Perhaps you can focus your energies on finally locating this nest of human brats and exterminating it! That would be useful.”
Then, before the Queen could respond, the Szash ended. No apology, not even a request to be excused. The purpose of her sister’s communion was now clear: not to inform or advise, but to accuse, to admonish.
It was maddening.
Restored to her host, Lilith Cavanaugh sat back in her desk chair and clasped her hands together, listening to the crack and pop of deteriorating tendons. This body had nearly ended its usefulness. Fortunately, the Undertakers’ recent funeral home campaign had been finally stalled, though the trap she’d laid for the perpetrators had once again failed.
The Undertakers.
They hid somewhere in the city, bathed in the shadows, mostly appearing at night, and always where and when she didn’t want them. They were quick, well-trained, and brave. They struck and vanished. Struck and vanished. Again and again.
Her treacherous, soon-to-be-departed sister had been right about one thing: it was time to end them. But how? Philadelphia was expansive, with far too many hiding places to be effectively and discretely searched. Her predecessor, the late but unlamented Kenny Booth, had favored the use of the pelligog to turn children into spies. But each time, the spy had been unmasked and the plan foiled. The Undertakers were too smart for that.
No, something subtler was required.
As she sat brooding in her office, a plan began to form.
She snatched up her desk phone and dialed. It was picked up on the second ring. She liked that.
No waiting.
“Yes, Ms. Cavanaugh,” John Tall said.
“Do you have a timetable yet for relieving me of my troubling relative?”
“I’ve used my cover to establish a rapport with our people on the Capitol’s police force. I’m sorry to report that nearly all of them are loyal to Lindsay Micha rather than you.”
“She was always … charismatic. They will be dealt with. Each and every one of them.”
“I would be honored to assist in the purge, Ms. Cavanaugh.”
“One thing at a time. Go on with your report.”
“I’ve learned Senator Micha’s schedule. But she is cautious and will be difficult to reach. I’m hoping to have one of her aides arrange an introduction by the end of the week.”
“Well done, John,” she said. “The situation, however, has become more urgent. Will Ritter has infiltrated the Senate pages.”
“Ritter’s here?”
“No doubt to investigate my sister, which means your paths will likely cross, and soon. I want you to find him, John. Make it your new priority. There is a girl with him, another Undertaker. You may kill her in any way you choose. But I need the Ritter boy alive.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Apparently Ritter is on his way to the Capitol right now. My sister intends to kill him there. Do not allow her to do so. If any of her people get in your way, you have full authority to deal with them as necessary. Will Ritter must not die before I’ve had an opportunity to interrogate him. Clear?”
“Clear, Ms. Cavanaugh. I’ll see to it.”
“Do that, John. This will mark your third encounter with the son of Karl Ritter. Fail again, and you will not survive long enough to see a fourth. Do you understand me?”
“Completely.”
“Good. Now get it done.”
The Queen slammed down the phone, her eyes blazing with dark hatred. She took no deep breaths, as the dead don’t breathe. But instead she stared out past the walls of her office, and relished the idea of having Will Ritter at her mercy.
It was going to be a very interesting evening at the Capitol.
I’m good at sneaking.
Oh, the Undertakers have other words for it: stealth, covert infiltration, recon. But, let’s be real; I’m a thirteen-year-old kid—and sneaking is sneaking.
I split Webster Hall just after dinner. Sharyn, having returned with the other pages, didn’t bother to check on me. After all, our plans were already locked. We’d wait until lights out before meeting downstairs and slipping out the back door. Then it was off to Union Station.
Of course, I had other plans.
Sharyn was going to be pissed.
I snuck out right after dinner, but before the other pages had come up for the night. And I didn’t bother with any doors, but instead climbed out my bedroom window and down a drainpipe that I’d noticed on my first day in the house. An Undertaker always notes his exits.
As usual, a Capitol Police car sat on the street. Uncle Sam’s “wards” needed looking out for, after all. Fortunately, in my week-long page career, none of the cops I’d seen on this guard duty had been Corpses.
Why bother, when one of the proctors was?
Using the shadows, I slipped out from the back of Webster Hall and followed the sidewalk in the opposite direction. If the dude in the cruiser noticed me, he wouldn’t think anything of it—just a nameless kid out for a stroll.
Unless he spotted my page uniform.
But he didn’t. It always hits me how luck seems forever on my side when I’m doing stuff I know I shouldn’t be.
The US Capitol’s Visitor Center opened in 2008. It wasn’t added to the big building so much as dug under it—a huge, high-ceilinged warren of fancy chambers that was almost as big the Capitol itself. It stood low on the eastern side of the complex, where it wouldn’t mess up the overall look of the building it served.
The entrance was heavily guarded, with metal detectors and cops on hand to search pocketbooks and backpacks. I didn’t have a backpack, and I knew the plastic water pistol under my jacket wouldn’t set off the alarm.
No, my only concern as I neared the checkpoint was my pocketknife.
The guards noticed my page clothes and waved me forward. These guys were human, though two others that I spotted in the back, watching me through the bulletproof glass—well, not so much.
“What can I do for you, kiddo?” the first cop asked.
“Hi. The Sergeant At Arms should have left word that I was coming. Andy Forbes?”
The guy taped some computer keys. “Yep. You’re on the list.”
“What brings you back tonight?” his partner asked. Just friendly interest—I hoped.
I’m not the enemy! Look behind you at the two dead dudes wearing the same uniforms you are. They’re the enemy!
“Homework,” I replied with a shrug. “Mr. O’Mally’s meeting me in the Rotunda.”
“Well, it should be quiet,” the first cop remarked, handing me a visitor’s badge. “A couple of committee meetings running late, but that’s about it. Step on through the scanner.”
I looked anxiously at the metal detector. It filled the only available gap in the bulletproof glass, the only way into the Visitor’s Center. Steve had once told me that my pocketknife—like Tom’s—wasn’t metal exactly, but kind of a “composite alloy.”
He didn’t think it would set off a metal detector.
But I’d never before had to test that theory. The problem was, I needed my pocketknife. It had a gadget that would help me with my monster hunting. So the time had come to throw the dice.
Of course, that’s easy to say when you’re safe in Webster Hall—less easy when you’re faced with four armed men, two of them of the dead variety. If that scanner went ballistic, I’d be searched, my gadget confiscated, and I’d spend the rest of the night in a windowless room answering a lot of questions—until the Corpse Cops managed to get a hold of me.
Steve … you’d better be right.
I dropped everything else, including my wallet and sat phone, into a little plastic bin. The cops didn’t give them a second look. Then, taking a deep breath, I stepped through the scanner.
As usual, Steve was right.
Nothing. Not a bleep. I did a pretty good job at hiding my relief—though I thought I spotted a smirk on one of the deader’s gray faces. I hate it when they smirk.
I
collected my stuff. “The Visitor Center’s all shut down,” one of the human guards told me. “Follow the lights through Emancipation Hall and then head straight up the Capitol steps and on into the Rotunda. No lingering. Got it?”
“Got it,” I said.
Emancipation Hall, with its high ceiling, wide-open floor space, and numerous statues was choked with people during the day, but eerily empty at night. Of course, the proximity of Corpses mixed with Ramirez’s monster talk wasn’t exactly helping my sense of well-being. My feet echoed loudly on the staircase as I made my way up to the Capitol’s main floor, slipped past the darkened Crypt, and then climbed the narrow flight of stairs to the Rotunda level.
O’Mally was waiting for me. “Right on time,” he said.
“Hi, Mr. O’Mally. Thanks again for this.”
“Well, let’s just make it a kick-butt report, okay? I’d hate to see you get sent home so quick.” There was something in his tone—something that worried me.
“Thanks,” I murmured again, the sound swallowed up by the surrounding emptiness.
As cavernous as Emancipation Hall is, the Rotunda’s something else altogether.
It’s used for all kinds of functions, from international receptions to state funerals. John F. Kennedy’s coffin once rested here, with thousands of people standing in line for hours to pay their last respects. The same goes for a bunch of other presidents. The chamber’s round, a hundred feet wide and 180 feet high, with paintings all along its ground-level walls, each depicting some famous event in American history. Mixed in with these big paintings are statues of presidents—like Abe Lincoln, standing tall in gleaming-white marble and holding out a copy of the Emancipation Proclamation.
And high overhead, at the very top of the dome, is Constantino Brumidi’s The Apotheosis of Washington, which I’d supposedly come here to see.
Except I couldn’t see it. Like Ramirez had said, there are no lamps in the Rotunda. It wasn’t too dark, mind you; a fair amount of city light leaked in through the rows of windows that circled the tapering dome. I mean, you could see where you were going. But, high overhead, the gloom deepened.
