“Possibly. Only, couldn’t they just infiltrate some human into the organization? It just seems to me a Benign One as a spy would be hard to control.”
Alison said, “That would hold as well for some sort of plot against Timmerman. More so, since Channing would be asking the Being to act against its client.”
“Its official client. It could be working entirely for Channing. Or Park-Wu.”
“The problem,” Alison said, “is still persuading a Devoted One to act in a duplicitous manner. I don’t claim to be an expert in this field, I’m afraid I’ve spent more time dealing with Ferocious Ones, but from what I know of Benign Ones, having to act as an enemy, or a spy for that matter, would seem to set up a very painful contradiction.”
“Even if Channing convinced Tunnel Light that Timmerman was evil in some way? And that it would be serving humanity by helping to destroy him?”
Alison sat back and took a sip of her drink. I thought I noticed her glance at my untouched colada and had to fight an impulse to force some down. She said, “It all comes back to Tunnel Light’s function. Which, as you point out, the SDA files seem to avoid delineating. Why is she there? What is she doing?” I said nothing. “And there’s still the question of the…outbreaks at Timmerman’s rallies. What connection could they possibly have with banking?”
“Alison—” I said. She stopped talking. “Look, I dug into this stuff, because, because it interested me. I was just curious to see what I could find out. But I’m not going to continue. I’ve got my own things to do, okay?”
Alison said, “Oh. Oh, I’m sorry, Ellen. I didn’t mean to presume anything. I suppose I just got excited. I realize it’s my issue.”
I stood up. “It’s probably best if I just go.”
Looking up at me, she seemed suddenly sad, or maybe frightened. I discovered a desire to reach out and stroke her cheek. She said, “Yes, of course. Thank you, Ellen. Thank you for your help.” I picked up the blue and grey knapsack I use for a purse. “Ellen?” Alison said. I looked at her. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you in some way. That was not my intention.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t,” I said. As I left, I thought to myself, why do I have to be so hard on her? And then, why am I feeling like some goddamn villain?
When I got home I began to clear my desk of all the letters and other junk that had accumulated over the past three days while I was playing investigator. Several times I thought of calling Harry to see if his sharp eye could help me make sense of what was happening. I even rehearsed starting the conversation, something like “You’ve got an admirer. Remember that friend of mine we met in Miracle Park?” But I didn’t want to tell him about my electronic b and e, or about Timmerman, let alone how I first came to know Ms Birkett. So I decided instead I should just get to work.
I might have dropped the whole thing if not for a visit from the federal government. They were waiting for me in my apartment two days later when I came home from the art supply store on 3rd Avenue. Three of them, two men and a woman. They must have heard me opening the door and stayed silent, because I had no idea anyone was there, until I came round the hallway into my living room/workroom. When I came in, they stood, very politely, as if their mothers had trained them in etiquette, which I suppose was the case, since fed agents supposedly speak of the agency as Mother Truth, and hold fire and mud enactments to bond to Her for life.
Of course, I tried to run as soon as I saw them. This was New York, after all. But one of them, the woman, held up her badge and told me, “It’s all right, Ms Pierson. SBI. We just want to talk with you.” Goddamnit, I thought, why can’t they be thieves?
They reminded me a little of the SDA operatives back when I was a kid. They were wearing masks, though not of animals. These were cylindrical, smooth, with faces painted on a surface that looked like old-fashioned printed circuits. Little lights set into the plastic (I assumed it was plastic) flickered on and off in patterns either random or beyond my ability to follow. But then, I wasn’t in much of a mood for concentrating. Instead of the SDA’s overalls, they wore clothes my Aunt Sylvia might have approved of—brown suits for the men, a knee-length long-sleeved dress with buttons down the front for the woman. Instead of paintings at the crotch, their clothes held mirrors, both there and on their shoes. On the right side of the neck, and on their wrists disappearing up their arms, I could see enactment scars, jagged lines alternating in different directions. Just under the left ear was a brand, something that looked like a simplified version of the badge the woman had shown me. I’m not sure what spiritual bonding the brands and scars served, but they did make it easier to believe these guys were really agents; an imposter would have to be a real perfectionist to bodyalter just for a stunt.
“Why don’t we all sit down?” the woman said. Keeping my eyes on her, I sat on the canvas director’s chair Harry had given me for my birthday.
Speaking in a high nasal voice that made me wonder if he might be a drag king, one of the men told me, “We’ve come here, Ms Pierson, as a kind of favour.” How nice, I thought. “Your government is concerned that you seem to be involving yourself in matters that really have nothing to do with you. And which could lead to very serious consequences.” I said nothing.
After a moment, the other man said, “We’re sure you realize, Ms Pierson, that tapping into government files is a federal offence, punishable by up to twenty-five years in prison.”
Goddamnit, I thought, so much for playing motels and modems. But then it struck me—if they really had caught me, if they had any evidence, why weren’t they taking me away? So maybe they were drawing some conclusions. But how? Alison, I thought. They’ve got people following her, recording her conversations. I wondered if we would have been safer in her office.
On cue, the first man said, “Your government is concerned about your involvement with Ms Alison Birkett.”
They seemed to expect me to say something, so I put in, “I’m not involved with her. She’s just someone I know. I saw her recently for the first time in, I don’t know, ten years.”
The woman said, “Then perhaps a break of another ten years would be a wise idea.”
The second man said, “As you will remember, Ms Pierson, your previous involvement with Ms Birkett did not end happily.”
I thought, you sonofabitch, Alison didn’t kill Paul, you did. You and your pet Malignant Ones. You and your goddamn cover-ups.
The first man put in, “Your government would not like to see another tragedy. It would make sense, Ms Pierson, to keep away from Ms Birkett.”
I said, “Well, I wasn’t planning to see her again.”
They stood up, so I did too. The woman said, “And please. No more tricks with off-limits information.” When I said nothing they left.
Alone again, I sank down in a chair, only to bolt up and grab the flash powder and some feathers and rock salt from the altar in the bedroom. Opening the door, I scattered the salt all about the threshold, outside and in, and then on the floor around the chairs they’d been sitting in. I sprinkled the flash powder over the salt and set it off, waving the feathers in large sweeps through the air and calling out “Seal all openings of this house my body from anger and pollution, from the one who whispers and the one who screams, from the one who hammers and the one who cuts, from all enemies and liars and unnatural death. Yes!”