By the time Panther and Bear returned carrying the Weatherman on a makeshift litter with River trailing after, they were ready to install the girl and her grandfather in a room that was physically isolated from the others, but still close enough that they could be protected. The Weatherman looked the same, still covered in purple splotches, still feverish and unresponsive. River hugged Hawk and told him how much it meant to her that he was doing this, and he hugged her back and reminded her again that they were family and must look out for one another. Panther slouched around muttering that they had all lost their minds, that taking chances was becoming a way of life and he, for one, wanted no part of it. Then he pitched in with the rest of them to haul supplies up the stairs to their new quarters.
It took them all day to finish their work. By then, Owl had examined the Weatherman and done some more reading on types of plagues. She thought she understood the nature of the one the old man had contracted and how best to treat it. She instructed River on what to do, using a combination of medicines she already had, if only in limited quantities, liquids to keep him for dehydrating and cold cloths intended to bring down his fever. It was rudimentary, but it was all they had. Hawk promised to speak with Tessa about it when he saw her that night, already knowing that it wouldn't make any difference, that he was not going to allow her to go back inside the compound, even for additional medicines.
By sunset, the Ghosts had everything pretty much in order and had settled in for the night. Cheney was back guarding the doors, his strength returned at least in part, and Hawk had established a schedule for two–hour guard shifts until dawn. There was no point in taking chances, even knowing how reliable Cheney was. It would only be for a few days, and then they would be gone from the city and everything would change. He tried thinking of what that meant and failed. He knew he couldn't hope to foresee everything, even though he desperately wanted to end the uncertainty. He would have to take their departure and their journey one day at a time and hope that he would discover what he needed to know along the way. It was a big risk, but he had the feeling that staying put and hoping for the best was a bigger risk.
Sometimes, you just had to trust in things. He believed that if they stayed together and looked out for one another, that would be enough.
It was deep twilight when he left the building for his meeting with Tessa.
From the weapons locker, he took one of the prods and a pair of viper–pricks along with his hunting knife. He considered taking Cheney, as well, but he was worried that the big dog might not be fully recovered and did not wish to put him in harm's way until he was. He had made this journey many times, and he knew how to go in order to stay safe. He would just have to be extra careful.
"Keep everyone inside," he told Owl, bending close so that the others couldn't hear. "If anything goes wrong, don't separate–stick together. I'll try to be quick."
She gave a small nod, but her eyes reflected her misgivings. "What will you do if she won't come back with you?"
He hadn't talked to her about what he intended, but Owl could read his thoughts as easily as she could read her books. She knew what he was going to attempt and what he was up against.
He smiled reassuringly. "She'll come."
"Promise me that if she chooses not to–no, wait, let me finish–if she chooses not to, you will come back anyway. You won't go into the compound and you won't hang around waiting for her to change her mind."
Her eyes searched his, waiting. When he hesitated, she said, "We need you, Hawk. We can't do this without you. Promise me."
He understood. He bit his lip, looked at his feet, then said, "I'll come back, I promise."
He said his good–byes to the others, went out through the heavy door that Fixit had rigged to protect their common room, and descended the stairs to the street. Standing just inside the door, he looked out at the shadowy shapes of the derelict vehicles and rubble mounds.
Then, taking a deep breath, he set off toward the compound, wanting to get this over with. He moved to the center of the street, giving a sweeping glance to his surroundings as he went, but not slowing as he did so. He had an uneasy feeling about being out here alone in the dark in violation of his own rule that no one should ever go out alone at night. He shivered as the wind blew in off the sound, chill and cutting. It felt wrong going without Cheney, despite what he had told himself. But there was no help for it. He would have to rely on his own instincts.
But his instincts weren't like Cheney's.
Besides which, he was tired and preoccupied.
Which was probably why he missed seeing the shadowy figure standing in the doorway across the street, watching him go.
THE WALK UP First Avenue toward the compound was still and hollow feeling and filled with shadows and ghosts. Hawk held the prod ready to use in front of him and himself in the center of the street, away from places where predators might lurk. He kept up a steady scan of his surroundings, searching out movement and strangeness and unexpected sounds that could signal danger, but found nothing. He knew he wasn't alone in the night, but it felt to him as if he might be. He was content with that, and his thoughts drifted.
Mostly, they found their way to mulling over what had happened with Cheney the night before. He could not stop thinking about it. He kept remembering how he had begged for a miracle and how that miracle had happened. He kept remembering the way his body had changed when the healing had begun, turning hot from the inside out–how a kind of energy had flowed out of him and into the big dog. He kept remembering how Cheney had responded, almost instantaneously, and then begun recover right before his eyes. Had he really been responsible?
Accepting this changed everything he believed about himself and his place in the world. If in fact he had healed the big dog, then he was possessed of a power that transcended anything he had even imagined possible. It meant that he really didn't know himself at all, and that was disturbing. He had never been anything special, never anything but an ordinary boy trying to survive in a world where boys were eaten up and spit out regularly. Now he had to consider the possibility that he was something more than a boy with a special vision.
He thought about that for a moment, wondering if it were possible that the vision was in some way connected to what had happened to Cheney. Even accepting that Cheney had been healed because of something he had done or something inside him that had responded to his desperate need to help his dog, it was a stretch to believe that this had anything to do with his vision. But he couldn't quite discount it, either. The two marked him as different when nothing else did, so it was possible that they had a similar source.
But what was the nature of that source? Had he been born with it? Had he acquired it? Everything about it–whatever it was–was a mystery.
He slowed, still aware of his surroundings, but caught up in his exploration of what might be the truth about him. It occurred to him that had never experienced a clear and complete elucidation of his vision. It had only come to him in pieces and only occasionally since that first time. It had never revealed itself fully, not even enough so that he knew where it was supposed to take him and those he led. He had trusted in it, but in truth he had never really understood it.
Did that make him a fool? He had never thought so, had never believed he was being misled or deceiving himself about what he was meant to do. He had acted on faith, and that had always seemed enough. But a closer examination gave him pause. Following a vision that was incomplete and unsupported by anything concrete did not seem all that intelligent.