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.
After a lengthy, but restful, few minutes, the door opened again, and Earl leaned out. “Ma’am? Please step inside.” He said it politely enough, but it wasn’t exactly a request, either. His tone implied the pleasewas really just a formality.
Since it had been my choice, I allowed him his little illusion of power and obliged.
Inside I found no fewer than four agents, all dressed in gray jumpsuits with creatively rustic names embroidered on the front, under a corporate logo so vague as to have been entirely mysterious. Three of them had weapons in their hands—FBI-issued handguns, extremely effective at such close range, should I allow them the luxury of firing.
“Please sit down,” Earl said, and indicated an office chair that, from the warmth of the cushions, had been recently vacated by someone’s rear. The FBI van was stripped to the essentials, but at least the chairs were reasonably comfortable, and there was coffee brewing in the corner. “Special Agent in Charge Rostow is on the way to talk to you. Until he gets here, please sit quietly.”
I didn’t know Special Agent Rostow, but I had no doubt that he would be just as effective and efficient as all of the other FBI representatives I had met. I had no real desire to chat, and instead I studied the van workers each in turn. I found nothing especially interesting, but one of them, a woman, found my regard uncomfortable and finally snapped, “What?”
“She’s not doing anything, Andy,” said the man sitting beside her. They both had banks of monitors to watch, and he’d never taken his eyes off of his responsibility. “Stay focused. She’s not our problem.”
I wondered what their problem was, and so I focused on the monitors as well. It was the compound, of course, shown from a painstakingly thorough set of angles, and both distant and close views. Beyond the gates, people moved with every evidence of calm purpose. Some of them were tilling a field, by hand, with hoes. A group of women in pastel clothing was hanging up laundry on a line strung between two trees, while another group had taken on the task of scrubbing and wringing out clothes in a series of large tubs. Still another group was preparing for a meal, and I watched them as they casually chatted and chopped vegetables for a pot.
Men, women, and, yes, children. All seemed totally at ease within their little world.
I envied them that, a little.
A few moments later, the door of the van opened without any knocking preliminaries, and three more men crowded in. The one in front was shorter than most federal agents, and wider; he was definitely a senior man, probably close to fifty, and although he looked soft, I was certain he was not. The benign smile and low hum of contentment emanating from him were treacherous; he seemed to have a touch of Earth power about him—something like what Janice Worthing radiated, but of course at a much lower level. It must have served him well in gaining trust and eliciting confessions.
“You must be Special Agent Rostow,” I said. I dismissed the other two with him, and he didn’t bother to introduce them, either. “I’m Cassiel.”
He smiled reassuringly and gestured for a chair. One of the individuals watching the monitors got up and rolled his over; you had to be quick to catch the expression of annoyance that came across his face before the smile of compliance. Rostow seemed to just expect obedience, and get it. That said a great deal about his style of leadership, I thought.
He settled himself in the rolling chair and moved it to sit across from me, elbows resting comfortably on his thighs, hands dangling. Casual and relaxed. “Cassiel,” he repeated. “I’m pleased to meet you. There are lots of stories going around about you. Is any of it true?”
“All of it,” I said. “Especially the parts that say I’m dangerous.”
“I think I’ll take my chances,” he said. His smile invited me to share the naughty conspiracy, but I didn’t smile back. “So. Half the agency is turning over rocks looking for you, and you just show up here. To what do we owe this honor?”
“Necessity,” I said. “I need to get inside the compound.”
“Inside,” he repeated, and leaned back in the chair. The back gave a small squeak of protest. “For what purpose?”
“If you’re thinking you can keep me here and talking until you get a response from your superiors, I can tell you what it will be—detain me and send me on to Quantico,” I said. “You don’t want to know my purpose, because you won’t care; in any case, you’re not inclined to trust me at all, and you’d never help me get inside. Correct?”
He blinked a little, and some of the benign trust-me aura faded. I liked him better this way: suspicious. “I suppose so,” he said. “I have no reason to help you, and plenty of reasons to do what my bosses tell me. For one thing, I’d like to retire in a few years on my hard-earned pension. So tell me what I ought to be doing for you and why. Make it convincing.”