“I know that she works pretty high up in the New York office. Corporate Command, inside Flatiron, right?”
“Co-director of Victorian Research, actually. But she doesn’t do that anymore. She resigned in late May. Guess what she’s doing now, Phillips?
“Drinking Mai Tais at some Club Med?”
“Think: dust. Think: biting it.”
“I don’t get it. Why would they kill her?”
“She’d obviously become a risk to them in her retirement. So she had to be taken out. But here’s a nice little fun fact for you, Phillips: they didn’t take as much care at all in how they disposed of her body. She and her briefcase, which must have been latch-chained to her wrist, washed right up on the bank of the Thames, deep in the heart of Dingley Dell. That’s where one of the Scadger kids and Professor Chivery found her. Chivery got the printed copy of a fairly damning exchange of memos she’d been carrying around with her, and put it right into my hand — how it’s all going down. They’re going to blow up Tiadaghton Dam, Phillips, and flood the valley.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Hey, look, it’s time for me to grab Bevan and the two of us get the hell out of here. Otherwise they’re going to kill me, Phillips. They’re going to fire me and then they’re going to kill me to keep me quiet, to keep from mucking up their final act. And who knows where in bloody hell my body turns up.”
“All right, now. Calm down. Let’s think this through.”
“First me. Then everybody else in this Godforsaken place. Look, I should go. I can’t — someone’s going to find me here. I’ll call you again when I get to a more secure location — I’m guessing the top of the Southern Coal Ridge, before Bevan and I make our descent. Phillips, I’m rethinking what we talked about the night we brought Newman back here. If my days are numbered then I’m not going out without making a little noise. I’ve gathered more than enough evidence to make a rock solid case against them, against their whole operation.”
“And I’ve also given this some more thought myself, Ruthie, and I’m not so sure anymore. Spilling the beans on the Tiadaghton Project — that whole shit-load of beans, honey—”
“But if we can get to the right people fast enough — if we can get some protection for ourselves—”
“And just who are the right people? This thing goes all the way up to the White House, Ruthie. The Pentagon’s had a place at the Tiadaghton table for the last sixty years. This isn’t us with the slingshot facing off with Goliath. It’s David and holy frickin’ Godzilla. I’m not a young man, Ruthie. I’ve lived my three score and ten and then some. But I still have no great desire to throw myself upon a live grenade, especially if there’s a chance that we don’t end up saving a single life at the end of the day. You know how hard it’s going to be to get this evidence to somebody who isn’t already compromised by the Project.”
“Not everybody’s in on it, Phillips. Congress has always been kept deliberately in the dark. You get it to the right Congressman—”
“It doesn’t matter, Ruthie. You’ve still got a global conspiracy here over a century in the making — run by some of the richest men in the world and with the tacit approval of nearly every occupant of the White House since Taft. And history records what happened to those who didn’t want to play ball. They poisoned Harding, took shots at FDR and Ford to bring them in line, and as for that Boy Scout from Massachusetts — the one man with balls enough to try to put Tiadaghton out of business — well, history tells us exactly what happened to him in gory, Technicolor detail. Look, let’s take this thing a step at a time. First, let’s work on getting you someplace where nobody will find you. F.Y.I., honey: I’ve called a meeting of the Rescuers for Monday. I’ve been wanting to tell you: we’re going to disband. Our job is done. Don’t come to that meeting. It’s too dangerous. Get yourself lost, baby. I mean it.”
“Phillips?”
“Yeah?”
“I think they’re getting sloppy. Or else they’ve maybe got a couple of inside subversives who’ve taken to monkeying around with the machine.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean that the Project never should have allowed a dead body to go floating down the Double Pine like that. I mean that I’m seeing other examples of how they’ve started to drop the ball. I think the Project is starting to unravel — not in a big way — just little threads being teazed out here and there — people who might have found out that Tiadaghton’s about to be shut down, and they’ve decided to engage in a little light sabotage while they’re still able. Or it could just be plain Project burnout: folks who’ve simply stopt giving a shit about their jobs.”
“And are you saying that this kind of climate could be of benefit to us?”
“Maybe in the short run. Openings get created. Opportunities suddenly present themselves. The members of the Fortnightly Poetry League can certainly speak to that. But these chinks could also serve as a wakeup call for Flatiron to go get themselves a much bigger pail of Spackle. Look, I have to go.”
“Go. Be safe.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Lord Mayor Feenix was the last to arrive. The mayor of Milltown and Health Minister of Dingley Dell was a man in his middle years who compensated for his diminutive stature through daily stints with the dumbbells, the medicine ball, and the Indian clubs. The result of this rigourous exercise regimen was a thick muscularity that gave the mayor a brutish, bulldog look, marked by a wide, full neck, and limbs that seemed more muttonish than human.
The Bulldog surveyed the faces of those gathered within the woodpaneled room that served as convening place for the Administrative and Advisory Board of Bethlehem Hospital upon Highbury Fields (the informal appellation “Bedlam” never being uttered between these dignified walls). He gave deferent nods both to his equals and to his inferiors as he took his place at the top of the conference table.
“Good evening, gentlemen, and a good evening to you as well, Miss Wolf,” said Feenix in a voice that was two parts croak and one part glottal abrasion. “I understand, madam, that your presence has been requested for a very important purpose that we shall take up shortly. Ah, Sir Dabber, yours is an old and warmly familiar visage. I’m curious to know what brings our senior-most emeritus member to this table after so long an absence. I am, however, even more curious to know why you’ve brought Mr. Trimmers along with you. Is there a piece for that scandal-mongering Delver that its favourite reporter wishes to write, perhaps on the subject of the recondite workings of our mysterious organisation? For if such be the case, I must caution the gentleman against pursuing it. Perhaps he isn’t aware that there exists an embargo against the publication of any of the particulars of our confidential proceedings.”
“Mr. Trimmers doesn’t wish to write about Bethlehem, Lord Mayor,” interposed Sir Dabber, whilst patting a handkerchief against his freshly perspiring forehead. “I have engaged him to indite minutes of this meeting for the purpose of retaining a permanent and official — albeit private — record of our proceedings.”
“I see,” piped Lord Mayor Feenix, nearly grinning. “Now what do we think of that, Dr. Towlinson?”
Dr. Towlinson did not think much of it at alclass="underline" “We’ve never had need of a permanent record before. The idea is ludicrous.” The doctor’s tone was sharp, his manner defensive.