Dearly, Beloved Part 41

We went to the boats, first, and dropped Smoke off. He looked relieved to be back in his cage. I told Papa and a handful of army officials what had happened, what Smoke had said about Allister's preserve-everything but the information I'd newly heard about Michael and the masks. I wanted to get it out, because I could tell, from the tightness with which my father held me and the tremor in his voice, that I would soon be Belize-bound.

"You're leaving," he finally said, as he saw to my wounds. "I love you, but you're leaving."

"I know." And I knew it was pointless to fight him, at least at the moment. Because I also knew what was awaiting me at home. What we still had to deal with.

Interrogation. The whole truth, at last.

It was close to dawn by the time we got everyone a.s.sembled in the celestial parlor. I wanted to wait until Bram returned to talk to Michael, but we didn't have time. The Allisters had to be going nuts, wondering where their son was. Of course, if they had been keeping an eye on him, none of this might have happened. Maybe we had all the time in the world.

Lopez stood in the corner. He'd been waiting at the house for hours. Dr. Chase and Dr. Samedi claimed chairs, while the Roes took the couch. Pamela was reluctant to leave my side, and I was reluctant to let her. She kept moving toward her seated family to offer them support, then back to me, sweeping back and forth across the floor like a pendulum. I figured her motions mirrored her mood-happy to see everyone safe, anxious about what was to come.

Michael sat on the piano bench, his hands unbound, his suit crusted with blood and his face swollen. It actually improved his appearance, by my reckoning.

Finally, Tom showed up with Renfield and a living boy-the last people to enter. The boy was lanky, crazy-haired, and seemed to buzz on his feet, all energy and antic.i.p.ation.

"Who's that?" Michael demanded.

"Havelock Moncure," the boy said. He looked at the Roes, and managed to contain his enthusiasm. "Reporter."

"Who starts?" The situation felt almost informal. My best friends, my mentors, people whom I admired-they were all congregated in my house, drinking coffee and tea, waiting for the blood sport to commence. The Dearly version of a high-cla.s.s salon.

"Yes, what's going on?" Mr. Roe asked on behalf of his family.

"I won't talk," Michael said, glaring at Havelock. "This is pointless. If you let me go now, I'll convince my father not to get you all for kidnapping."

"So you don't want to talk about the bombing?" Tom asked. "Remember, I was there."

Pamela slowly stood up. "Bombing?"

Michael rolled his eyes. "Someone shut the baggage up."

Tom made like he was going to start the Pain Olympics, Pamela gunning for his side, but I held up a hand. "No. No more punching." I swept toward Allister. "I'm tired. Tell us what you know. Because you're not getting out of here until you do."

"I won't," he said again, turning his eyes to mine. "In fact, I can't."

"Do you honestly think you're going to get away with this?" I said, my face heating. "You think we're not going to go to the police?"

Michael's eyes widened. "You can't go to the police. They won't believe you anyway." And then they narrowed. "If you do, I'll drag your deadmeat beau down with me. I told him that in the field. I can get him for about ten different charges. You should see what he did to Allister Genetics!"

Fear fluttered in my heart, but I knew Bram could handle anything Michael threw at him. "I'm not talking about just you. I'm talking about all the people you're working with, whoever they are. We don't need the coppers. We're going to bring the masks down, and we'll be sure to tell each one who referred us."

"More than that," Samedi said, almost casually, "think of the info we do have. Who's been snitching on you, Mikey? Who's been selling you out? And who else might he have told?"

Allister looked around at everyone, a.s.sessed every avenue of escape. He realized the truth of our words.

And he started spilling.

He told us about the Murder-that the group had been formed months ago and only just become active. He told us about the system that allowed its members to exchange paper notes by numbering and hiding them behind a false stone in a pub fireplace, their attempts at inner-group anonymity. He told us about the zombies he'd seen get killed and all the living sympathizers he'd seen get hurt. About his plans for Bram.

When Lopez heard about the Roes, his fists curled eloquently, and he chose to walk to the very edge of the room. When he got to the death of Mr. Delgado, Isambard very nearly tackled him, and Samedi had to step forward and hold the boy back until he got himself under control.

Although I knew it would threaten every scintilla of my own control, I looked at Pam.

She didn't move. Not even when Issy flew past her. She stared at Michael almost blankly, her eyes a maelstrom of unfocused emotion. Behind her, her mother wailed and her father chose to hold her, even as his eyes threatened to reduce Michael to a heap of smoking embers. But Pamela didn't move.

"Why?" she asked. "Just ... why?"

Michael acted like her question was irrelevant. "If I had any hope that you'd move up in the world, marry a lord, I would have waited. I would've taken you down socially." He frowned slightly. "But I don't. You could remain low and dirt poor for the rest of your life. I had to hit you where it hurt. Because you hurt me, endangered me, disrespected me."

It took every ounce of willpower to remain where I was. "It was all me, then," Pamela said numbly. "I did this. I brought this on my family."

"You didn't do it," I said. "Don't you dare believe him."

"I did do it. By ever liking him." Suddenly, Pamela flew into frenzied action, racing across the floor. She kicked the piano bench out from under Allister and put her boot into his chest when he tried to crawl back across the floor, causing him to cough violently. "But thank you! You hear me? Thank you!" she screeched into his face. "Because I know what my life's been leading up to now. Oh, yes. You've given my pathetic little life meaning! Because I am going to use the lady's education I should never have had, and the contacts I never should have made, and I am going to do whatever I must to remain in high society, because I'm going to haunt and torment you for the rest of your miserable life! I don't care what the cops and the courts do to you-you will never atone for this. I will make you fear everything that wears a skirt, including dogs dressed up for Halloween, do you hear me?!"

Mr. Roe ran over and grabbed his daughter by the elbow, urging her back. She didn't fight him, but continued to stare at the p.r.o.ne Michael with a terrifying intensity. I was honestly scared. And impressed.

"Enough of this. Everyone ask their final questions." Lopez finally strode across the room, reaching down and hauling Michael up by his collar. Danger clouded his usually tepid voice like water louching absinthe. "I'm taking him to the police."

"You don't dare!" Michael yelled. "My father will end you if you do!"

Lopez turned Michael around and eyed him steadily, silently. Behind the gentleman's normally kind eyes glittered something unspeakably cold. "You think I fear your father? Oh, young man. You have so much to learn."

"Wait." Tom stepped forward. "The other members of this thing. Make him write a list. His dad's rich, yeah? If he manages to get it covered up, we'll need the other names."

"They cover their faces!" Michael argued. "I don't know any of them!"

"Do you want to be the only one who goes down?" I demanded. "Don't you at least want to give up some details? Because I don't think you're man enough to take all of the responsibility for this."

At this, Michael paused, his eyes agonized. In the end I was right. On my dead mother's stationery, rescued from a seldom-opened writing desk in the corner, he wrote out what he could remember of the letters he'd been sent. He didn't know any names, or how many Brothers were out there-a fact that chilled me.

"What about the 'Green Jacket' you mentioned?" I asked, studying the page.

"I don't know who he is." Suddenly, Michael reached out and grabbed my hand. Disgusted, I cast it off and backed up. "I did it for you, Miss Dearly. Like I do everything for you."

"You're sick in the head," I announced. "You are ill. You need help."

My words seemed to cut him to the quick. Five minutes later, after making a copy of the written information, Lopez escorted him out of the parlor. Even from the back, Michael looked broken, frightened.

Good.

Havelock shut off his recorder, thanking us profusely for "the story of his career" and refusing the money Ren offered to cover the chip Bram still owed him. He took a photograph of the list instead, and agreed not to leak any details about us in exchange for first rights to any other Murder members we caught.

When he was gone, I spoke. "I'm sorry for all of this. What can I do?"

Mr. Roe took a while to respond. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Miss Dearly." He looked at his weeping wife. "And there's nothing you can do. But at least we know."

"What do we do now?" Mrs. Roe asked tearfully.

"Go to Marblanco," Pamela said, turning to look at them. "For my sake, as well as yours. I'm sick. I have nightmares. I can't do this anymore. I want to get out of the city, at least for a while-please. Look at what's happened."

Before her father could say anything, I added, "If Lopez will let me, I'll go, too. We could ask him later." I glanced at Dr. Chase, who smiled knowingly. "Papa's going to insist I get out of the city for a while, after all this."

Mr. Roe took a moment but nodded. I moved to hug Pamela, and I could feel the physical relief this small motion caused. She clutched me back, her arms weak.

If we were going anywhere, we were going together.

36.

BRAM.

For the first time since sniffing out Nora back at base, I hunted another being by using my in-death "gifts." I hated doing it-nothing like scenting someone like a dog, turning your head at every noise like a parrot to make you feel inhuman-but I had no other options.

Driving in the dark with the lights off, practically creeping, I sought Coalhouse. After an hour I came upon a place where the railroad tracks crossed a country road. A series of painted steel signs told me where it led-to a Territorial park including something called the Cave of the Glowing Skulls. Sounded like the sort of place a desperate zombie would head for. h.e.l.l, if I'd been in the same condition, I probably would've gone there to get my mope on, too. On a hunch, I decided to go for it.

My hunch served me well. After another half hour I picked up Coalhouse's trail, the faint odor of a pa.s.sing dead body. I followed it off the main road and onto a series of narrow back roads that eventually turned into hiking trails, necessitating the abandonment of his carriage. My farm boy powers of observation took over, and I noticed places where the ground had been disturbed, branches broken. I took my rifle with me, as well as a first aid kit and a flashlight I found in the glove compartment, and marched into the trees.

Morning was threatening by the time I found the infrastructure leading to the cave. The entire area'd been landscaped for tourists, with informational booths and catwalks everywhere. There were no day-trippers to be seen, but Coalhouse's scent was strong. After drinking from a nearby river and splas.h.i.+ng some water over my neck, I followed it to a lee in the rocky terrain. Another sign told me that it, small and insignificant as it appeared to be, was the entrance to the actual cave.

Given my track record with mines, I was reluctant to enter. I took a few seconds to compose myself before making my way inside.

"Coalhouse?" I shouted, flicking on the flashlight. The light bounced off of a series of unremarkable rocks. Tramping farther in, I soon came to a metal walkway with railings, which I followed into a chamber rife with long, slick deposits of calcite. "Anybody home?" I could hear something scuffling, rough, far off. Could be rats, bats-could be my friend. Steadying myself on the catwalk, I kept going.

The first skull I saw startled me, my light calling its shape out of the darkness unexpectedly, making it appear to s.h.i.+ne. Then I found another, and another. Soon I was pa.s.sing one every few feet, as well as an a.s.sortment of other human bones. According to the signs outside, the remains of these people were ancient, pre-ice age, more rock now than anything human. The thought crossed my mind that bone really was no more than rock to begin with, that we were all built from the inside out like living statues, like animated clay. G.o.d, death was starting to make me morbid.

"Bram?"

Turning on the catwalk, the beam from my flashlight fell on the half-empty face of Coalhouse. "There you are," I said reflexively, before my voice dropped into a well of silence. I wasn't sure what else to say.

Coalhouse was in the same boat. His clothing was torn and dirty, and he appeared to be unarmed. He stood before me, wordless and weary, his right arm slack. In his left hand he held a flickering lighter.

"Are you hurt?" He shook his head. After a beat I tried, "Are you ready to come home?"

I might've rattled off a list of insults at him, he looked so wounded by my question. "I can't."

"Sure you can." I bent down and placed my gun on the catwalk. "You think I'm here to do a citizen's arrest or something? I just came here to find you."

Coalhouse watched me as I straightened up, his lips quivering. "No." His lighter died and he tried to get it started again, eventually cursing and hurling it to the floor of the cave when it wouldn't. Laying his hands over his face, he pleaded, "Please tell me Nora's all right. I'm so sorry ..."

"I wouldn't be here if she wasn't. It's okay."

"Thank G.o.d." Lowering his hands, he glanced aside, one of the skulls catching his attention. "You know how they say skulls grin? They don't."

"Coalhouse ..."

"They look broody. Don't they? They look like they're stuck thinking forever." He reached out and gripped both metal catwalk railings. "I don't want to think anymore. About anything. I was wandering, trying to figure out how to go back and fix what I did, and it's like my mind froze."

I didn't like where this was going. "You don't have to think right now. You just have to come with me."

"Where?"

"Back to the city. Everything's okay. Nora's safe, Patient One's safe. None of our people got hurt."

At Nora's name Coalhouse stepped forward. "I didn't take her. I swear. And I didn't mean to shoot her. At least believe me when I say that!"

"Shoot her?" This was news to me-news that put my back up. "Tell me what happened."

"I don't know," Coalhouse moaned, pacing away from me again. "I just wanted to prove I was capable. Go big like you have, get the girl, save the day. I was going to make Hagens tell me everything. And then she did, and I had this mad idea that if Smoke were killed, everything would stop. No one would have him to argue over anymore, least of all someone we don't know ..."

"Explain that to me. Nora started to."

"Hagens said someone tried to get her to hand over Smoke weeks ago. That they were going to take out Company Z if she didn't. That they knew things about Z-Comp they shouldn't." He went on, building his story, layering details upon unbelievable details.

The fact that Nora'd been injured was horrific, but at least she was safe. I concentrated on that for the time being. "We need to move on this. Together."

"Together? You don't need me. No one does." Coalhouse turned back, his eye feverish. "The soldiers caught up to us once, talked to Laura and the others. I told them I was Z-Comp, but they didn't believe me. They didn't want to know anything about me."

That had to sting. I knew there was nothing I could say, right then, to make up for that.

"And the Punks ... the Punks burned their dead. So I can't go home. No one wants me, I don't belong anywhere. I help people, and they forget about me. Or I fail. I'm completely useless. I can't even shoot straight anymore."

Shutting my eyes for a few seconds, I tried to think of how to phrase it. "Coalhouse, our home is here, now. Our family is here."

"You say that. You have Nora. Tom has Chas. I don't have anybody."

"You have me. I'm your friend!"

"You didn't believe in me."

"I do now!" He looked up. "You were right, back when I wanted to call the cops and you wanted to keep going after the Changed. You were right. And the only reason I've ever been able to do 'big things' is because you guys have been with me!" I looked at him anew. "I won't leave any of you behind."

Coalhouse seemed to hover before me, the beam of the flashlight encircling his torso and face without illuminating his legs. After a long moment of consideration, he said, "Then help me."

"That's what I'm trying to do."

"Kill me."

The first aid kit slipped out from under my arm and bounced across the catwalk. The shock of his words seemed to lock my joints. "What?"

Coalhouse reached up to finger his loosened eye, and remembered it was gone. Slowly, he sank onto the catwalk, the railings shuddering. "I don't want to think anymore. All I think is bad stuff, horrible stuff. Like how I'm going to rot more, become even uglier. How even though I feel like it sometimes, I'm not really alive. And I get angry at Tom, how everyone seems to think I should smile and pick myself up and show the living I'm just peachy ... when I'm not. And I remember all the bad stuff I've done, and how useless I am, and it just replays over and over. I can't stop it. It feels like I'm going crazy, and if I'm going crazy, then I'm dangerous and I have to die."