It took two days, during which I slept at cheap motels and ate even cheaper food; even with the frugality, my money didn’t last long, and my stomach was growling in frustration as I considered the dollar left to support me through the night. I was carefully weighing the options between fat, sugar, or both when a new sound filtered up from my pocket.
The cell phone.
I pulled it out, pushed TALK, and heard a businesslike voice say, “Identification number, please.”
I recited it from memory. There was a short pause, and then the voice said, “Go directly to the Trenton bus station where you came in and wait. Someone will be along.”
It was dark, and chilly. I could have thickened the material of my coat, but it occurred to me that they would have been photographing and observing me these past few days. Anything out of the ordinary would be noticed.
I would, as Rostow had said, be dropped.
At the bus station, motionless people slept sprawled in chairs and on benches, or wandered aimlessly. There was a minivan parked outside, and a man beckoned to me as he slid back the door. Inside were four others. One was Merle, but he looked at me blankly, and I forced myself to give him the same basic regard as I dropped into a seat in front of him. The driver shut the door, climbed behind the wheel, and drove us on into the dark. Nobody spoke.
“Phone.” I hadn’t noticed, but someone was sitting in the passenger seat in the front, and was now turned toward me and holding out her hand. It was the woman I’d last seen in the coffee shop. Funny, I should have seen her; again, I felt the telltale tingle of some kind of power. She’d veiled herself—I was almost sure of it. I found my cell phone and handed it over, along with the business card. She tossed the phone into a bag with others. “Put on your seat belt, Laura.”
I nodded and fastened it as the van sped on into the unknown.
To my surprise, we were not taken to the encampment that the FBI had been observing. We were taken instead to an old building on the outskirts of the city, which seemed to be unsettlingly isolated—I worried not so much for myself as for the others, excluding Merle, who seemed as expressionless as before. Our companions seemed to be honestly frightened for their safety.
I was not sure they were wrong.
“Inside,” said the driver, and shoved open the front door. Light spilled out in a blinding fan, and we were hustled through quickly, not given time for our eyes to adjust. Merle, who was in the lead, suddenly froze and held up his hands in a position of surrender. I saw why, a second later; there were two men in the room, each in a separate corner, pointing guns at us.
Large guns.
“Sit,” said the driver, and pushed the last woman into the room before slamming the door behind himself and locking it. Merle settled into one of the four dented chairs, and I sank down next to him, followed by our other two recruits
“One of you is a spy,” the driver said, and walked in front of us. He was a big man, and it was hard to focus on his face. I realized that once again I’d lost track of the woman in the business suit. She was here, somewhere; I could feel her presence. With a little effort I could have broken through her veil, but I let it stand.
Nobody had responded to the big man’s declaration, so he said it again. “One of you is a spy, sent by the government. I’ll give you one chance: Say who you are, and we’ll let you go.”
I felt a perverse sense of relief. With two of us infiltrating, his supposedly insider knowledge seemed a throw of the dice at best. I almost glared at him, and remembered my timid exterior at the last second. Instead, I glared down at my own frail, shaking hands lying impotently in my lap.
“Ain’t me,” said the man on my left, a rawboned young man with smooth, dark skin and big, wickedly amused eyes. “Don’t suppose they’d have me, anyway.”
He seemed strangely cheerful about it. Maybe he found having a gun pointed at him exciting, which I found curious; I could count on surviving such an encounter. He couldn’t. When the man kept focusing on him, the younger man lost his smile. “Dawg, you think you’re scary? I been shot by grannies scarier than you.”
“Show me,” the man said. The young man stared at him for a second, then grinned in a flash of perfect teeth, stood up, and skinned his shirt up to hang around his neck.
“This one I got in a drive-by when I was ten,” he said, pointing to a scarred dimple low on his right side. “Got this one two years ago.” The other scar was both more recent and more impressive; it was in his chest, and it looked dire. He also had tattoos, a lot of them, subtle and dark against the tone of his skin. It reminded me irresistibly of Luis and his flame tattoos.
“All right. It isn’t you,” the man said. “Put your shirt back on.”
The young man laughed and yanked it down as he sat. I risked a quick glance up to find that the gunman was staring at me. I looked down again and folded my trembling hands together. From my peripheral vision, I saw him shake his head. “Not you, either.”
Merle sat back, arms folded. Unlike me, he was staring straight at the man, as stone-faced and immovable as ever. He didn’t say anything. The gunman assessed him for a long moment, and then jerked his head suddenly to stare at the last one in our little group, a woman. “You,” he said. “Talk.”
She was an older woman, gray in her hair, heavy and tired. I didn’t need to be a Djinn to read the hardness of her life, the pain, the struggle. When she spoke, she had an accent—Eastern European, I thought. “I don’t like police,” she said. “I just want to have peace.”
The young man, the one who was so scarred, looked sharply at her, and I could see in him in that moment that he wanted the same thing. Peace. A place to be safe.
It made me angry that Pearl was betraying them.
The gunman prolonged his drama a few seconds longer, then made a show of clicking the safety on his gun and holstering it on his belt. “All right,” he said. “Wait here.”
He walked away, into the shadows at the end of the room. I stared after him, and willed the shadows to fade, just for an instant—long enough to see the woman I’d met in the coffee shop in the veil. She’d been reading us, of course, monitoring our heart rates, our aetheric pulses. Earth Wardens were difficult to fool when they were focused on determining the truth.
He came back another moment later and said, “Get up.” We did, with varying degrees of reluctance. “Go change your clothes. Strip down and leave everything, and I mean everything. Watches, jewelry, underwear, socks. You leave it all behind.”
It was a wise precaution, and it wouldn’t matter to me. I supposed Merle was prepared for it as well. I followed the gray-haired woman into the room indicated, and found that there were two stacks of clothing. I expected the fabric to be uncomfortable, but it felt surprisingly good against my skin. I left behind the items I’d been wearing—almost as colorless as what I had been given—and walked back to join the others. Merle and the young man were already in their chairs, dressed identically to me and, in another moment, the older woman.
Our driver then had us each stand up, and searched us, by hand. At the end of each search, he looked over his shoulder into the shadows, where the Earth Warden—or whatever she was—would be scanning us on the aetheric for any hint of concealed items. Merle was clean, as was I. The young man had tried to keep a thin, flexible knife, which was found in the search. The older woman had kept pictures, old and faded, of young children. She wept at giving them up, but give them up she did.
We drove a long, weary way.
When the van finally parked, I knew we were there. I felt the tingle of power hissing around us, exhilarating and menacing at once. None of the others seemed to notice it, and I was careful not to react outwardly. I was in the heart of the enemy, and if Pearl wanted to destroy me, it would be hideously easy for her, hardly as much effort as slapping a bug. My only defense was anonymity.