One problem remained. The Victory.
“If I pay you a fee, will you keep my motorcycle here for me, but not sell it?” I asked. “And my other clothes?”
He squinted at me suspiciously. “How much of a fee?”
“A thousand dollars to hold these for me here. You can place a price tag on them, but just be sure no one buys them.” I gave him an unsettling smile, one I had learned from the best. “I would be very upset if I come back and they’re not available.”
“A thousand,” he repeated, as if he’d never heard the word before. I watched the light slowly dawn in his eyes—the sunrise of greed, with dollar signs for rays. “Yes, sure, can do, missy. What name do I—”
“Jane Smith,” I said.
“That’d have to be cash, missy.”
I opened my backpack and took out an envelope. “That is fifteen hundred,” I said. “For the clothing I just bought, and for your services. Please understand that even if you take this money and run, I will find you. I’m very good at exacting justice when someone tries to cheat me.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed in his scrawny neck like a golf ball trapped in a hose, and then he nodded. “Wouldn’t think of it,” he lied. “I’ll guard your stuff like it was my own. Better, even.”
“An excellent idea.” When he tried to take the envelope, I held on to it. “This also buys your silence.”
“Never heard of nothing,” he agreed, and snatched the money away. “I’ll put that bike in the back, put a ten-thousand-dollar price tag on it. That’ll keep it here. Nobody with ten grand to their name ever stepped foot in here, anyway.”
It sounded like a perfectly reasonable plan. As long as the Victory was gathering dust and dreaming of the open road, I’d be far less recognizable.
I bought, at the last minute, a pair of black leather gloves with the fingers cut out. That disguised most of the oddity of my left hand. A few large silver rings drew attention away from the coppery skin even more. As I was admiring the effect, and thinking that these would be a great benefit if I had to punch anyone, I heard a harsh blatting noise from the parking lot. The clerk went pale and scurried into the back.
I headed for the door. A hulking man at least six and a half feet tall shoved in before I could reach it, and all six and a half feet of him—at least the parts visible—were covered in violent tattoos, mostly in reds and blues. A winged dragon graced his shaved head, its snarling maw open just over his nose like a helmet. His black leather jacket was heavily decorated with patches and paints, rips and scuffs, and I was fairly certain he was a murderer. Some people just give off that aetheric stench.
He barely gave me a glance as he stalked forward, bellowing, “You got any new blue jeans in, old man?” The jeans he was wearing were, in fact, splattered with a dark substance that could have equally been motor oil or blood. I decided I didn’t need to know the technicalities, and walked out into the parking lot.
A large black and chrome Harley-Davidson motorcycle was parked at an angle in front of the shop, the leather tassels on its handlebars flickering in the breeze.
I smiled.
Really, sometimes it’s just too easy.
The Harley was built for intimidation, not comfort, and it jolted me with every bump of the road—but the freedom it gave me was a wonderful thing. I called Marion before I left, but there’d been no real change in Luis’s condition; he was still unconscious, though she’d been able to repair the physical damage, which had all been internal. She didn’t think he was in any lasting danger.
I did. Ironic that I’d warned him to watch out for the traitor at the school, and then done him an injury myself, but that didn’t mean the traitor wouldn’t take the golden opportunity to put Luis out of the way when he was down.
After much debate, I told Marion. To my surprise, she already knew. “Luis told me,” she said. “Not sure I believe it, but I agree, the timing of your mudslide was more than just coincidental. I’m watching, Cassiel. Trust me.”
I did, or I’d never have spoken to her about it.
“I got a call from the FBI,” she continued, without changing her tone at all. “They say you were supposed to show up for a meeting in Albuquerque. They’re mildly peeved that you ditched them.”
“Mildly?”
“Well, that’s the story they gave me. I expect they’re beating the bushes looking for you. I assume you’re protecting yourself, including randomizing this phone.”
“I am.”
“Good girl. Go to it, then. I’ll call you if anything changes with Luis.”
“And Ibby?” I dreaded her answer, but it came readily enough, and cheerfully.
“The girl’s doing well. Scared about her uncle right now, but otherwise settling in. She’s a sweet little thing. Her seizures have stopped, at least for now.”
I felt a stir of hope. “Does this mean she can recover?”
Marion’s silence was a depressing omen of the words to come. “No,” she finally said. “That’s not what I meant. Ibby’s damage goes deep, all the way to her core. I mean I can stabilize her and extend her life, but I can’t heal her. If she uses her power, I may not even be able to promise that much.”
I knew that, but for a moment, I had felt an entirely unreasonable surge of hope. And it hurt, badly, to have it taken away. I had known there would be no miracles, and yet ...
And yet.
“I have to go,” I said.
“You don’t have to,” Marion said. “You could turn around. Come back. Ibby and Luis—”
“I have to go,” I repeated. It made me feel cold inside, but I couldn’t let her talk me out of this. Not now. Not when I’d seen how close Pearl was to the power she needed.
I had many miles to go, and I didn’t intend to spend them talking.
It took three days, sleeping in short bursts at campsites, to reach the area where I’d sensed Pearl’s presence. Not surprisingly, it was a fenced, guarded compound in the woods, and it was surrounded by federal agents and observers. No press, which was interesting; the FBI had succeeded in maintaining the press blackout so far, and it was an impressive accomplishment, considering the deaths and other criminal acts that had already been associated with the Church of the New World.
But now I had a dilemma. There seemed to be no real way to easily bypass the federal observers and enter the camp, and even if I did, they’d know I was an intruder. I needed a quieter, more thorough reconnaissance, one that required me to blend in to my surroundings—or as much as my costuming would allow. I could try a cloak, but that was one thing I was curiously deficient in as a skill; Luis was much, much better at it, and I could never keep it up for long. Certainly not long enough to make it into the compound, against the Argus-eyed guards Pearl would have set, animal and human.
There would be no way in without the cooperation of the FBI.
So I rode the Harley up to the front door of the communications trailer parked half a mile up a country road, raising a column of dust and frightening sheep with the motorcycle’s unforgiving noise. I parked, walked up to the trailer’s door, and knocked. The sign claimed that it was a telecommunications work van, but the man who cautiously opened the door didn’t seem to me to be authentically blue-collar. He seemed ill at ease in his gray jumpsuit, and I doubted his name was really Earl.
“My name is Cassiel,” I said. “I believe that the FBI is looking for me. I want to bargain.”
Whatever they had expected, it wasn’t this. The man stared at me for a few seconds. I stripped off the glove on my left hand and wiggled my coppery fingers in his face, made a fist, and then opened it again. “I assume your instructions said to look for someone with a metal arm,” I said. “It’s a great deal more certain than most distinguishing marks.”
He looked over his shoulder at someone else in the trailer, then said, “Uh, excuse me for a minute, ma’am,” and shut the door. I waited patiently, putting my glove back on and crossing my arms. The day was nice in New Jersey, though humid. Sheep ambled the hills, having forgotten the scare of my passage. I wondered if the cows I’d set free on the road from their slaughterhouse trip had ever found freedom—sweet grass and long life. Probably not. Life was rarely so simple, even for cows.