Red Glove (2)

by Holly Black

  I shake my head. “I’m going immediately to a hospital so that the wound can be photographed and entered into evidence. It’s extremely important right now that Ms. Thomas not know the building is trying to put together a case against her. Can I rely on your discretion?”

  “Are you trying to get Bethenny kicked out?” he asks. I adjust my answer when I see his expression.

  “Our first step is going to be suggesting that Ms. Thomas enroll her dogs in intensive obedience classes. If that doesn’t work, we may have to ask her to place them elsewhere.”

  “I’m tired of all their noise,” he says. “I’m not going to say anything to her, so long as you’re not trying to mess with her lease.”

  “Thank you.” I glance down at the floor, but I don’t see any blood. Good. I head for the hallway.

  “Aren’t you kind of young to work for the management?” the neighbor says, but he seems more amused than suspicious.

  I push the glasses up the bridge of my nose the way Sam does. “Everyone says that. Lucky me, I’ve got a baby face.”

  I limp through the lobby. The change in the way I walk probably helps my disguise—the desk guy barely looks up. I walk out the door, going over all the things I could have done wrong. I make my way stiffly down to the street and then over to the supermarket parking lot, where the hearse is idling.

  Lila hops out of one side and comes running toward me. The wig’s gone, bruise makeup is smeared across her nose, and she’s laughing.

  “Did you see our performance? I think you missed the part where we convinced Larry that he’d accidentally punched me. He wound up begging us not to press charges.” She throws her arms around my neck, and all of a sudden her legs are around my waist and I’m holding her up.

  I spin around to hear her giggling shriek, ignoring the pain in my ankle. Sam is getting out of the car, grinning too.

  “She’s such a con artist,” he says. “Better than you, I think.”

  “Don’t sass me,” I say. I stop spinning, walking over to Sam’s car and setting her down so she’s sitting on the hood. “I know she’s better.”

  Lila grins and doesn’t unlock her legs from my waist. Instead she pulls me toward her for a kiss that tastes of greasepaint and regret.

  Sam rolls his eyes. “How about we hit a diner? Larry paid us fifty bucks to go away.”

  “Sure,” I say. “Absolutely.”

  I know I will never be this happy again.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  MONDAY MORNING I pull into the parking lot of the FBI office in my shiny mob-bought Benz. I feel pretty good with the built-in GPS reassuring me that I’ve arrived at my destination, the leather seats heating my ass, and the surround-sound speakers blasting music from my iPod loudly enough that I can feel it in my bones.

  I get out, throw my backpack over my shoulder, hit the button so that the alarm sets, and walk into the building.

  Agent Jones and Agent Hunt are waiting for me inside the lobby. I follow them into the elevator.

  “Nice car,” Agent Hunt says.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I like it.”

  Agent Jones snorts. “Let’s go upstairs, kid, and see what you’ve got to say. You better have something this time.”

  We get to the fourth floor, and they march me into a different room. No mirror this time. I’m sure it’s bugged, though. Simple furniture. Table, metal chairs. The kind of room someone could lock you in for a long time.

  “I want immunity,” I tell them, sitting down at the table. “For any and all past crimes.”

  “Sure,” Agent Jones says. “Look, here’s my verbal agreement. You’re just a kid, Cassel. We’re not interested in busting you for whatever little—”

  “No,” I say. “I want it in writing.”

  Agent Hunt clears his throat. “We can do that. Not a problem. Whatever makes you feel the most comfortable. Give us a little while and we’ll get something put together for you. Whatever you say to us, we can guarantee that no prosecutor will ever file charges against you. You’ll have your deal. We want you on board.”

  I reach into my backpack and take out three copies of a contract.

  “What’s this?” Agent Jones says. He doesn’t sound happy.

  I swallow. My fingers dampen the paper with sweat. I hope they don’t notice. “These are my terms. And, unlike the deal you made with my brother, I need this to be authorized by an attorney in the Justice Department.”

  The two agents exchange a look. “Philip was a special case,” Agent Hunt says. “He had some information we needed. If you’re proposing a trade, you have to give us something.”

  “I’m a special case too. Philip told you—or at least he strongly implied—that he knew the identity of a transformation worker, right? So do I. But I’m not a sucker like him, okay? I don’t want a bunch of empty promises. I want this contract signed by an attorney from the Justice Department. Not by you two jokers. Then I fax it to my lawyer. When I get her okay, I’ll tell you everything.”

  Agent Hunt looks a little stunned. I don’t know if they guessed the killer was a transformation worker or not, but I can’t take chances. Besides, I have only a few cards to play.

  “And if we can’t do that?” Agent Jones asks. He doesn’t seem so friendly right at the moment.

  I shrug my shoulders. “I guess neither of us gets what we want.”

  “We could pick up your mother. You think we don’t know what she’s been up to?” Agent Hunt says.

  “I don’t know what she’s been up to,” I say, keeping my voice as mild as I can. “But if she’s done something wrong, then I guess she’s going to have to pay for it.”

  Agent Jones leans in across the table. “You’re a death worker, right, kid? You strongly implied that the last time you were here. Maybe something went wrong before you knew how to control your work? It happens, but you think we aren’t going to find out about a missing kid somewhere in your past? Then it’s going to be too late for deals.”

  It’s going to be too late for deals much sooner than that, I think.

  I wonder what it would be like working for the Brennan family. I wonder what it’s like to kill someone when you have to remember it.

  “Look,” I say, “I have outlined my conditions in the document in front of you. In exchange for immunity I will give you the full name and location of the transformation worker and proof of one or more crimes committed by that person.”

  “It’s Lila Zacharov, isn’t it?” Agent Hunt says. “We already know that. Not much of a secret you’ve got there. She disappears, and her father suddenly gets a new assassin.”

  I touch the top of the paper, tracing the words, willing myself not to react. Finally I look up at them both. “Every minute you spend talking to me is a minute you’re not talking to the Justice Department. And in a couple of minutes I am going to get up and walk out of here and take my offer with me.”

  “What if we don’t let that happen?” Agent Hunt says.

  “Unless you plan on bringing in a memory worker to actually go through my brain like it’s a deck of cards, you can’t force me into a deal—and, let’s face it, if you were going to do that, you would have already done it. I guess you could physically keep me here, but you can’t keep me interested.”

  “You better really have the goods,” Agent Jones says, standing up. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll make the call.

  “They leave me alone in the room. I figure I’m going to be there a while. I brought my homework.

  * * *

  When they bring me back the first contract, I call my lawyer. Unfortunately, she doesn’t know she’s my lawyer quite yet.

  “Hello?” Mrs. Wasserman says.

  “Hi, it’s Cassel,” I say, letting all the fear I actually feel creep into my voice. The agents have left me alone in the room, but I have no doubt that they are recording everything I say. “Remember when you told me I should ask you if I needed anything?”

  I hear the hesitation in her
voice. “Did something happen?”

  “I really need a lawyer. I need you to be my lawyer.” I have no doubt that right now she’s wishing she never took those violets from me.

  “I don’t know,” she says, which isn’t no. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  “I can’t really explain.” Knowing people is important to conning them. I know Mrs. Wasserman wants to help worker kids, but she also likes to know things. It doesn’t hurt to add a little incentive. “I mean, I want to tell you, but if you’re not my lawyer . . . I shouldn’t put you in that position.”

  “Okay,” she says quickly. “Consider me your lawyer. Now explain what’s going on. My caller ID has you calling from an unlisted number. Where are you?”

  “Trenton. The federal agents here are putting together a contract to try to get me immunity if I give up the identity of a transformation worker—a murderer,” I say, in case she starts feeling protective of the unnamed worker. “But I need you to make sure the immunity deal is airtight. Plus, they want me to work for them. I need to make sure I can finish out the year at Wallingford before I start. And there’s one other thing—”

  “Cassel, this is very serious. You never should have tried to work out a deal like this on your own.”

  “I know,” I say, happy to be chastised.

  It takes hours and I wind up having to call Daneca’s mother four times with changes before she approves the paperwork. Finally I sign. The Justice Department signs. And since I am still a minor, Mrs. Wasserman sends over the page with my mother’s forged signature—the one I prepared in advance and left on Mrs. Wasserman’s desk on Saturday, flipped over so it looked like just another piece of blank paper. She doesn’t, of course, know that it’s forged although I imagine she must guess.

  Then I tell the Feds who the transformation worker is.

  That really doesn’t go well.

  Agent Jones taps his fingers irritably against the press-board top of the table. The bottle rests in front of him, light making the green glass glow softly. “Let’s go through your story one more time.”

  “We’ve gone through it twice already,” I say, pointing to the paper he’s making notes on. “I’ve given you a written statement.”

  “One more time,” says Agent Hunt.

  I take a deep breath. “My brother Barron is a memory worker. My other brother—my dead brother—Philip—was a physical worker. He was employed by a guy named Anton. Anton was the one who ordered the hits. No one else knew what he was doing. We were his private execution squad. I’d transform someone, and then Barron would make me forget about it.”

  “Because he didn’t think you’d go along with this whole deal?” Agent Jones asks.

  “I think—I think that Philip thought he was doing right by me. That I was just a kid. That if I didn’t know, then it was no big deal.” My voice cracks, which I hate.

  “Would you have killed those people?” Agent Hunt asks. “Without magical coercion?”

  I imagine my brothers coming to me and telling me that I was important, needed. That I would be in on the jokes, be a real part of the family, no longer an outsider. I could have everything I wanted, if I would just do this one thing for them. Maybe Barron was right about me. “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t even know if I thought they were dead.”

  “Okay,” says Agent Jones. “When did you discover that you were a transformation worker?”

  “I figured out there was something wrong with my memory, so I bought a couple of charms and kept them on me. When I changed something by accident, I figured out what I was. Barron couldn’t make me forget, because of the charms. Philip told me the rest.” It’s weird to tell it so blandly, without all the horror or the betrayal. Just the facts.

  “So you knew that we were talking about people you killed that first time you were in this office?”

  I shake my head. “But I figured it out when I looked at the files. And I was able to remember enough to find that bottle.”

  “But you don’t know where any of the other bodies are? And you don’t know whose body that is?”

  “True. I really don’t know. I wish I did.”

  “Is there any special significance to the bottle? Why did you pick that?”

  I shake my head again. “I have no idea. Probably it just came to mind.”

  “Why don’t you tell us about Philip’s murder again. You’re saying you did not shoot your brother, correct? Are you sure? Maybe you don’t remember it.”

  “I don’t know how to use a gun,” I say. “Anyway, I know who shot my brother. It was Henry Janssen. He broke into my mom’s house and tried to kill me, too. I wasn’t wearing gloves, so I just . . . I reacted.”

  “And what day was this?” asks Hunt.

  “Monday the thirteenth.”

  “What did you do exactly?” Jones asks.

  It’s like remembering lines for a play, Sam said.

  “Mom had signed me out of Wallingford to go to a doctor’s appointment and get lunch. After, I figured I had some time to kill, so I went home.”

  “Alone?” asks Agent Hunt.

  “Yes. Like I said twice before, alone.” I yawn. “The front door was kicked in.”

  I think of Sam, with an oversize shoe on his foot, slamming the sole against the door. The wood splintered around the lock. He looked satisfied and also startled, like he’d never been allowed to do anything so violent.

  “But you weren’t worried?”

  I shrug. “I guess I was, a little. But the house is pretty busted up. I assumed that Barron and Mom had a fight. There’s not much worth stealing. It made me a little more alert, maybe, but I honestly didn’t think there was anyone inside.”

  “Then what?” Agent Jones crosses his arms over his chest.

  “I took off my jacket and my gloves.”

  “You always take off your gloves at home?” asks Agent Hunt.

  “Yeah,” I say, looking Hunt in the eye. “Don’t you?”

  “Okay, go on,” says Agent Jones.

  “I turned on the television. I was going to watch some TV, eat a sandwich, and then go back to school. I figured I had about an hour to hang.”

  Agent Hunt scowls. “Why go home at all? None of that sounds very exciting.”

  “Because if I went back to school, I’d have to do after-school stuff. I’m lazy.”

  They share another look, not a very friendly one.

  “This guy comes out, pointing a gun at me. I hold up my hands, but he comes right up to me. He starts telling me this story about how Philip was supposed to kill him and he had to take off in the middle of the night, leave everything behind. I was with Philip, although I don’t remember it, and he blamed me, too. Which, I guess, is fair. He goes on, saying that he and his girlfriend capped Philip and that I’m next.”

  “And he told you all this?”

  I nod my head. “I guess he wanted to be sure I was afraid.”

  “Were you afraid?” asks Agent Jones.

  “Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Of course I was scared.”

  Agent Hunt scowls. “Was he alone?”

  “The girlfriend was there. Beth, I think. Her picture was in those files you gave me. I don’t think she’s a professional. She didn’t act like one. I guess that’s how she wound up walking in front of a camera.”

  “How come he came back now, after all this time?”

  “He said that Philip no longer had Zacharov’s protection.”

  “Is that true?” “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m no laborer. At the time I didn’t really care. I had to do something, so I rushed him.”

  “Did the gun go off?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Two in the ceiling. Plaster everywhere. My hand hit his skin and I changed his heart to glass.”

  “Then what?” Agent Jones asks.

  “The woman screamed and grabbed for the gun,” I say. My hands feel clammy. I concentrate on minimizing my tells. Thinking of the last time I told this story, I make sure not t
o use the same language, so it doesn’t seem like a memorized speech. “She ran.”

  “Did she shoot at you?”

  I shake my head. “Like I said, she ran.”

  “Now, why do you think that is? Why not take a shot at you? You were right there. Blowback was going to knock you out in a minute. She probably could have carved you up slow.” It doesn’t comfort me that Agent Hunt knows so much about the way transformation blowback works, but the delight in his voice when he talks about what she could have done to me worries me even more.

  “I have no idea,” I say. “I guess she freaked out. Maybe she didn’t know. I’m not telling you anything new here. I don’t know, and no matter how many times you ask me, all I can do is guess.”

  “So you put him in the freezer? Sounds like you’ve disposed of a body before.” Agent Jones says it like he’s joking, but he’s not.

  “I watch a lot of television,” I say with a meaningless wave of my hand. “Turns out bodies are heavier in real life.”

  “Then what? You went back to school like nothing happened?”

  “Yeah, kind of,” I say. “I mean, I went back to school like I’d just killed a guy and put him in my freezer. But I’m not sure you can tell the difference from the outside.”

  “You’re a pretty cool customer, huh?” says Agent Hunt.

  “I hide my inner pain under my stoic visage.”

  Agent Hunt looks like he would like to put his fist through my stoic visage. Then Agent Jones’s phone rings and he gets up, walking out of the room. Agent Hunt follows him. His last look in my direction is some combination of suspicion and alarm, like he suddenly thinks I might be telling the truth.

  I go back to my homework. My stomach growls. According to my watch it’s nearly seven.

  It takes them twenty minutes to come back.

  “Okay, kid,” Agent Hunt says when they do. “We found the body in the freezer, just like you said. Just one last question. Where are his clothes?”

  “Oh,” I say. For a moment my mind goes blank. I knew I forgot something. “Oh, yeah.” I force a shrug. “I dropped them into the river. I thought maybe it would suggest he’d drowned, if someone found them. No one did, though.”