Ex pursed his lips.
“Works for me,” he said.
I stood up, and we headed out together. Chogyi Jake paused in the doorway, looking back at the confused Harlan.
“Mr. Jeffers,” he said, “I assume there’s a super on site? A handyman for simple jobs?”
“Yes. Sure.”
“I don’t suppose we could borrow a sledgehammer?”
It turns out—I’m not making this up—there’s a construction tool called a stud finder. Had I known about these during my brief run as a college coed, I’m pretty sure my dorm mate would have been carrying one around the Northern Lounge, holding it up to guys, and saying Nope, not you. Instead, my first experience with one involved Ex slowly going over the southern wall of the living and dining rooms, marking the white plaster in thick pencil, while Aubrey, Chogyi Jake, and I moved all the furniture into the kitchen and three bedrooms. Empty, the living room took on the smallest echo. Our footsteps and voices had a new, unfamiliar depth. Just behind where the cow-skin couch had been, the marks made the unmistakable shape of a door frame.
In the absence of dust masks, Aubrey sacrificed one of the sheets, ripping strips from it with a sound like paper tearing. We all tied squares of five-hundred-count white percale over our mouths and noses. We looked like angelic bank robbers. Ex hefted the borrowed sledgehammer.
“We could just go through the walls,” I said.
“If we’re right, I assume Eric protected that as well. Besides, I don’t know where the wiring is,” Ex said.
“You don’t know that doorway isn’t trapped,” Aubrey pointed out.
Ex shrugged and slowly bounced the handle of the sledgehammer against his open hand in anticipation of the architectural violence ahead.
“How likely is it that we’re about to introduce ourselves to the neighbors?” I asked.
“We could wait,” Chogyi Jake said. “If whoever lives next door would let us in, it wouldn’t be hard to take the dimensions of their rooms and see if there’s the expected gap.”
I was tempted, but not because I had any doubt about what we’d find. The truth was, plastering over whole rooms so that they didn’t seem to exist felt like exactly the kind of thing Eric would have done. I hoped whatever we found would shed some light on the incidents at Grace Memorial. And still, there was some small, quiet part of my mind that hesitated. Ex lifted his pale brows as if asking a question. Or permission.
“Let’s do this,” I said.
The first blow cracked the wall, a spiderweb appearing out of nothing. Ex swung again. Fine dust rose in the air. It smelled hot to me. The room itself shuddered, and bits of Sheetrock fell away, hanging on by a thin membrane of old wallpaper and tape. With the morning sun still spilling through the windows, the white wall seemed to glow, the darkness beyond it as thick as ink. Ex kept swinging, debris piling up around his ankles, as the doorway came free. One swing went in farther than the ones before, passing through the wall and into whatever lay beyond. The unmistakable crash of metal stopped him. We came close. Aubrey had his cell phone out, the dim glow from the screen pushing into the blackness.
Recessed behind the wall just enough so that the drywall could cover it, a black iron-mesh security door blocked a short hallway with a door on either side beyond it. Ex pulled away a hank of Sheetrock, and I could see where the security door’s frame had been screwed into the flesh of the building with round-topped bolts that defied removal. The hinges were on the far side where we couldn’t reach them. Even with the relatively little training and awareness I’d picked up in the last year, I could feel the wards and protections burning off the metal like heat. The two dead bolts were covered in thin black-etched symbols. I’d seen only one thing like it before. Eric’s place in Los Angeles. The other DC1 property.
“Bingo,” I said.
EIGHT
When I was about fifteen years old, I found a Rubik’s Cube. You remember those? Hottest-selling toy of the 1980s? It’s a cube with different colors on all six sides, with each side divided into nine squares. The whole thing’s set up so you can rotate bits of it, scramble up the colors, and then—if you’re really smart and patient—put it back the way it was before you messed things up. A sort of molded-plastic metaphor for everything else in life. I figured the best thing to do was steam off the colored stickers and put them back so that it looked solved. My older brother thought I was cheating. He solved it the old-fashioned way, by looking up the solution online. Even so, it took him three days the first time he solved it. He got to where he could do it in half an hour with only a little confusion and cursing. Once he understood what he was doing, it was easier. Not do-it-with-your-eyes-closed, but easier.
Breaking into Eric’s secret fortress was like that too. It wasn’t only that we’d been through defenses very much like it before. We were getting familiar with how Eric’s mind had worked. Were there two obvious strategies to get past something? Look for a third. Stuck five layers into a problem? Go back two or three steps and see if the mistake wasn’t that far back.
“Wait!” Aubrey said, and Ex and Chogyi Jake stopped chanting like someone had hit the pause button. Aubrey leaned in close to the iron-mesh door and shook his head. “It’s not working.”
“It is,” Ex said. “You’re just reacting to the aversions.”
“I’m not,” Aubrey said.
“You’re open to them,” Ex said. “In the last year, you’ve used the Oath of the Abyss. You’ve been ridden. Twice. You have to expect that you’re going to be more vulnerable to things like this.”
“Ex. Look at it,” Aubrey said.
Ex stepped out of the protective circle of red chalk drawn on the carpet, squinted at the runes and figures on the lock, and said something crude.
“Perhaps we should reconsider our approach,” Chogyi Jake said. “What if we began with the Itiru meditations, and then invoked the Mark of Lavavoth?”
“Not Lavavoth. South-southwest is a red herring,” Ex said. “I just don’t know what it’s distracting us from.”
It was a little after three in the afternoon, and the condo was trashed. Ex had stripped back as much of the drywall out of the hidden doorway as he could, and it left everything covered in a thin plaster dust. Everything smelled like it. The air tasted of it. On the plus side, we’d made more progress in the last three hours than we had in the first three days in Los Angeles. On the minus, the strain was telling. Tempers were starting to wear thin, my own included.
While I let the three of them work it out, I went to my bedroom. The black electronic key to the minivan sat on the table beside Aubrey’s wallet and cell phone. I picked it up, tossed it twice in the air, and headed back into the occult construction site.
“I’m heading out for a while,” I said. “Anyone need anything?”
“Green tea,” Chogyi Jake said at the same time Aubrey called out “Cleaning supplies.” Ex only looked sour and stared at the sigils on the locks. I scooped up my backpack and my laptop case, and I left.
As the elevator sank down to the garage level, I let myself sag. I felt frustrated. I felt tired and on edge. I felt like some part of me that I couldn’t quite control was pacing in the back of my head like a tiger in a cage. I stepped into the semiopen air of the parking garage, muggy air pressing at my face and the back of my neck. My footsteps echoed, and I realized I half expected someone to jump out of the shadows and attack. Or maybe a bunch of people, all breathing together. More than that, I sort of wished they would.
I got into the minivan with something like disappointment and realized I didn’t actually know where I was going. I had the general intention of shopping or seeing the sights or doing something to burn off some of the growing energy, but I hadn’t Googled directions to anyplace. I hadn’t even asked Harlan where the best local deli was. My options were to go back in or go forward without a clear idea where I was headed.
Or call the local expert.
Kim answered on the fourth ring, and for a few seco
nds I thought she was her voice-mail message. By the time I regained my conversational footing, Kim was already delivering a status report.
“I e-mailed Oonishi the questions,” Kim said. “Honestly, though, I don’t know how long it will be before we get the results. The others are right. He’s starting to regret calling you in.”
“Nothing like getting what you asked for,” I said. “Where are you right now?”
“I’m on campus. I just finished my lecture.”
“Lecture? You’re taking classes?”
“I’m teaching them. You don’t think they’d pay a mere PhD to do full-time research, do you?” she said, and the bitterness in her voice made it clear that wasn’t how it worked.
“Parasitology?”
“I wish. Cell biology. Introductory cell biology. There’s only enough interest for a real parasites section every two years or so, and so far I’ve had to co-teach with an MD from infectious diseases. It’s not really the same thing, but having a chaperone keeps me in my place. Why? Is something the matter?”
“No,” I said. “I just thought you’d be at Grace.”
“After yesterday? Not a chance. When we know what’s going on, I’ll consider it.”
“Can you do that? I mean just stop showing up there and not get fired or something?”
“No, I’ll get fired eventually. Unemployed is better than beaten to death.”
I laughed. I didn’t expect to, it just happened. Kim might have had the coldest, least sentimental mind I’d ever met. After a solid year of Ex’s weird paternalism, Chogyi Jake’s studied compassion, and my little romantic roller coaster with Aubrey, just talking to her was like seeing the world through new eyes. Of course she wasn’t going in. I’d assumed she was because she wasn’t at the condo. I didn’t know why I’d fallen so easily into the idea that on one side there was Grace Memorial, and on the other there was me and the guys with room for nothing else.
“Well, if you’re ditching work and have a few spare hours, I could use some help.”
“Did something happen?” she asked.
“No. Well, yes actually. But what I really need is to get out from underfoot while the guys work through something. I’ll tell you all about it when I pick you up. But the thing is I don’t know the city. Where to get a vacuum cleaner. Like that. And anyway, I could use the company. If you’re up to it.”
“All right,” she said. “Come get me.”
She gave me the address of a coffee shop. I gave it to the GPS and told her it would take me fifteen minutes to get there. She told me to expect thirty with traffic. I started the car, turned up the ramp, and headed out onto the streets of Chicago with only a reassuring, fake-British computer voice to guide me. Haze grayed the blue of the sky, softening the sunlight and bringing the infinite bowl of air a little closer. Traffic on the gentle left-then-right curves of the Kennedy Expressway was thick, but not as suicidally impolite as Los Angeles had been. Still, I found myself watching the other drivers carefully while the GPS told me where to go.
It almost worked. If it weren’t for Bell Avenue ending about twenty feet before it hit Taylor Street and making my last turn impossible, it would have been twenty minutes. I parked on Bell and walked the rest of the way. All the buildings were brick, two stories at the least, three at the most, and crowded up against the sidewalk. A busker with a ukulele sang a Tom Waits tune as I walked past. The breeze that cooled my cheeks and brushed back my hair smelled like car exhaust.
The Bump & Grind Café didn’t live up to its lurid name; it was all fresh coffee and baking apples. A flat-screen television was showing an art film that I remembered having heard about but had never actually seen. A few computers sat around, apparently for the free use of anyone who bought a coffee and wasn’t surfing for porn. And Kim sat at a table by the window. Half of a latte rested in front of her, the film of milk on the glass matching the hazy sky. Her purse was tucked under the chair, her head bent over a book.
For the space of a heartbeat, she didn’t see me, and I caught a glimpse of who she was when she thought no one was watching. Her clothes belonged on an older woman, neat, professional earth tones. Her pale hair gave the impression of being touched by gray, though I was pretty sure it wasn’t. Her gaze was focused, intent, closed. The softness at her jaw and the first, faint wrinkles at her neck reminded me of how my mother had looked when I was still a girl. And there was something else too; she had the same air of waiting for something she knew wasn’t going to come.
She looked up and nodded, and the impression vanished. She was once again my familiar, hard-edged Kim.
“So what’s happened and why do we need a vacuum cleaner?” she asked instead of saying hello.
While we walked back to the minivan, I brought her up to date, not just on the discovery of the secret rooms but on Los Angeles and the Lisbon notations—DC1 and YNTH—with our assumption that the first meant high security and the second being anyone’s guess. She listened with her head canted forward, like she was leaning into my words.
“What about the image enhancement on Oonishi’s data set?” she asked when I was done.
“Already uploaded.”
“Do we have an estimate of the time it’s going to take?”
“No,” I said, pulling out onto Polk. “We’ll know when we know.”
She nodded once, but she didn’t look pleased. I felt a little tightness at the back of my throat, like I’d gotten a bad grade on a paper that I’d been proud of. Maybe hanging out with her hadn’t been a good idea.
“Problem?” I asked, my tone carefully neutral.
“We’ve got too many tests and not enough data,” she said. “I wish we’d gotten into Eric’s secret rooms before we did the work for Oonishi. If there’s anything useful in there at all, it’s going to change the questionnaire.”
“It isn’t like Eric left us directions.”
“God forbid,” Kim said. “That man never let anything by if he could help it.”
“Did you love him?” I asked. I hadn’t meant to. I hadn’t even wondered until I saw her there in the café, waiting for something. “I mean, I know you and Eric—”
Kim took a quick breath, shrugged, and answered just as if I’d had any business asking.
“No, I didn’t. I don’t know why I did what I did. At first, I thought it was only that we were confined in the same cabin for too long, and humans act like that. But then after, when it kept . . . happening. Well, I didn’t love him. He didn’t particularly like me. The sex wasn’t very pleasant. It was just something we did. I rationalize it now. I say that I was lashing out at Aubrey or I just don’t have a very healthy attitude toward men or it was a self-destructive moment, but I honestly don’t know why I was with him.”
“You never told Aubrey,” I said.
“No.”
I turned the minivan up onto the Eisenhower Expressway, gunning the engine to bring us to speed.
“I didn’t either,” I said.
“Thank you.”
The traffic slowed, the first deadening congestion of the coming rush hour. Kim leaned forward, looking up into the empty sky.
“You still in love with him?” I asked.
“I miss him. But I know why we aren’t together. I don’t have to like it, but I’m all right. I’m glad the two of you are together.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Her smile was fast and genuine and sad.
“You are too kind, Jayné,” she said. “Really. It’s a vice.”
“I’ll try to be more of a shit,” I said. “Any idea where we can find that vacuum?”
But before she could answer, Eric intruded.
“Hey. You’ve got a call.”
Kim flinched at the voice, and I pretended not to notice. I rooted through my pack one-handed, keeping the minivan in its lane with the other, trying to answer the call before Eric spoke again. The call was from Aubrey’s number. I took it.
“Jayné,” he said. “Where are you?�
�
“Fifteen minutes from you, if the traffic would get moving,” I said.
“Push them out of the way and get over here,” he said. I could hear him grinning.
“You got through?”
“Chogyi Jake had this flash of freaking genius about the whole Enochian directionality thing. I’ll tell you about it when you get here.”
My heart raced. I bent toward the wheel, as if I could clear a path for us by force of will.
“The rooms,” I said. “Did you get into the rooms? What’s in there?”
“Come home, sweetheart,” he said. “See for yourself.”
THE HIDDEN rooms didn’t look the way I expected. Secret rooms should be dark, with cobwebs and wrought iron fixtures and probably creepy organ music. And rats. These looked almost normal. Almost. The door on the east side of the hallway opened onto a simple officelike space. A cheap desk with the wood-grain laminate starting to peel at the sides, a landline telephone in a style twenty years out of date, two four-drawer filing cabinets, and a bookshelf half-filled with folders, books, and boxes. The drapes were chocolate brown bleached almost beige by the sun. In fairness, there were a couple of cobwebs.
The western door opened to a smallish bedroom actually decked out to sleep in. A steel-frame single bed with a thin mattress, a little bedside table, and that was about it. It had its own stripped-down powder room with stainless steel fixtures and no towels. If I hadn’t been walking in Eric’s footsteps for the past year, I might not even have noticed that the light fixtures were of unbreakable security glass and mesh, that the bed and table were bolted down, or that the solid-core door was fitted with a double dead bolt and hung with industrial-grade hinges. A cell. So that was interesting. There weren’t any restraints on the bed, but slapping on a couple of handcuffs would have been easy.
Kim, behind me, was drawing the same conclusion.
“He must have expected somebody to be possessed,” she said. “And that it would take a fair amount of time to get the rider out of them.”
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