I tried to think if there was anything else to say. But there wasn’t.
“Well?” I prodded him.
“Well what?”
I wanted to jump the space between us and throttle him.
“Do we have a deal?”
“Okay,” he said.
I almost didn’t catch it. He said it quietly. No haggling, no comebacks. Just “okay.” It seemed too easy. But then again, it wasn’t a very complex situation. I didn’t buy his Willy Loman act-behind those placid eyes I saw a snake-brain coiling. It seemed like the smarter someone was, the less there was to say.
“That’s it?” I asked.
“Is there something else?”
“No.”
“Okay then.” He used his thumb and forefinger to smooth the two halves of his mustache. “I better get going. Seems like I’m always running behind. You know how it is.” He chuckled. “Say, I hate to ask, but can I have this?” He picked up one of my troll dolls, one with wild pink hair. “Haven’t seen this one before. I bet my sister would like it.” He gave an apologetic smile.
I think my eyebrows were knitting tighter than if he’d asked me a math question.
“Sure. Fine.”
“Thanks. Really kind of you.”
He did a couple of mini-bows to me and shook Miles’s and Sarah’s hands.
He was at the door with his hand on the knob when he turned around.
“Oh, sorry, one other thing. Your friend Chance.”
Suddenly, the entire room froze.
“What about Chance?”
The man in the suit shook his head. “Sad news. He was killed in an accident. Drunk driving, I’m sorry to say.”
I looked at Miles and Sarah. Sarah’s eyes were wide. Miles’s were burning.
“It’ll be in the paper tomorrow,” the man said. “We were waiting to put the rest of you in the car, but I guess there’s just one victim in this accident, after all.” He scratched his head. “Well, good night.”
31
For a moment, I thought Miles would jump across the room and tear the little man limb from limb. The look in his eyes scared the hell out of me.
But he didn’t move. He just sat there, his eyes burning like coals. I heard the door close. The man with the mustache was gone, and he took all the air in the room with him. Miles just kept staring at the spot where he’d been.
Chance is dead. That’s what kept running in my mind, over and over. Chance is dead. Chance is dead.
Miles shivered. I thought he was cold, but then I saw his eyes. They’d dimmed from burning to a low simmer. His shiver was like a lion’s shaking off a hunt. He walked to the window and threw it open. Cold air rushed into the room. It stung. It felt like an exorcism, cleansing the room of that man’s affable malice.
Miles turned to us and opened his hands.
“We’re free,” he said.
“What?”
“We’re free. We did it. We have our lives back.”
“But Chance.”
Miles shook his head.
“Chance was an adult. He knew what he was doing.”
“They killed him.”
“They did. And if it hadn’t been them, it would’ve been the Sandinistas. Or the Taliban. Chance was only happy in the middle of a war zone. I’m surprised he made it this long. You know what would’ve been a tragedy? Chance dying in a Boca Raton retirement home with pea soup on his chin. His only crime was getting Jeremy involved in all this.” Miles rubbed his hands briskly. “Listen to me. We’re moving on with our lives. This is a gift. This is as good as it gets.”
I started to protest, but Miles raised his giant hand with such force that I took a step back.
“How can you be so cold?” Sarah snapped.
“Cold?” He stared at her. He almost roared. “You think I’m cold? I knew Chance better than either of you. I’ll be mourning him long after he’s just a footnote in your memory.”
His eyes actually started watering.
“Miles…” Sarah said gently.
“I don’t want to hear it. Chance is gone.”
“This isn’t about Chance,” she said. “Miles, they’re killing kids. Twenty-two-year-olds, right at the start of their lives.”
“You can’t beat these people!” he barked. “Say we tell people what we know. So what? We’re only alive because it’s easier for them than cleaning up the mess we’d make. But they could clean it up. We’re alive at their convenience. That’s it.”
“You’re right,” I said.
Miles did a double take. Sarah looked at me like I’d betrayed her.
“What?”
“You’re right.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever said that before,” Miles mumbled.
“Exposing what we know won’t help us.”
“Thank God. At least someone’s been paying attention.”
“We have to beat them another way.”
His smile dropped; he let out a low growl.
It was time to tell them what I’d been thinking about, ever since my trip back from New York. The final piece of the puzzle. Their Achilles’ heel. The piece that had been right in our faces the whole time. We just hadn’t seen it.
“Something’s been bothering me,” I said. “Remember what Isabella told us? Possession is a temporary state, right? You do the ritual, magic happens, and then bam, it’s over. Right?”
Miles closed his eyes. He didn’t say anything.
Sarah nodded. “Right.”
“So how are they maintaining this for the entire life of the victim’s body-until they’re ready to skip to their next generation of hosts? We’re talking sixty years… How do they do it?”
“I don’t know,” Miles snapped. “What am I, Grand Poohbah?”
“Miles, listen. What did I see, when I was in the tunnel over the ceremony? Remember? There were dancers, right? And drummers? And the priest with the crazy eyes? And behind them, what did I see?”
He tried to remember, then shook his head.
It had been there, right in front of us, all along. Sarah’s eyes lit up.
“Behind the dancers?” she asked.
I nodded.
“And behind the priest, on the altar?”
“Right…”
“A machine. You said you saw a machine.”
“That’s right-”
“A machine, or something like that, in the dark, twisting and moving like the dancers were. That’s what you said.”
I nodded. Her eyes were bright, alive.
Miles didn’t say anything. He just nodded slightly.
“Isabella didn’t say anything about a machine, did she?”
He shook his head no.
“Of course she wouldn’t,” I continued. “It’s totally out of character with the ritual…”
Sarah smiled, remembering my exchange with Isabella.
“ ‘What if someone were using voodoo…’” she recited.
“ ‘… someone from outside the culture…
“ ‘In a way it was never intended,’” Miles finished.
I nodded.
“What if the machine…”
“… was some kind of extension of the ritual…”
“Prolonging it…”
“Sustaining it…”
Miles shook his head as the idea unfolded.
“It’s an addition.”
“A mechanization.”
“Assembly-line voodoo,” I said, smiling.
“Then it stands to reason,” Miles continued, “that if the machine is prolonging a temporary state-possession-indefinitely, then if we…”
“… destroyed the machine…”
“… we’d end the possession…”
“… and then…”
“… what then?” Miles asked. “Are the victims-what did Izzy call them?-the horses… are they still in there, somewhere?”
“Would they come back?”
“ ‘When the god dismounts, the priest is himself again, weary maybe, dazed,’ but…”
“… but this is so much longer… not minutes but decades…”
“If you cut them off too long, do they die?” Miles asked.