Queen of the Dead (22 page)

Sharyn's body, which had been hammering against her bonds throughout the operation, finally quieted. Her eyes closed. Now instead of her familiar dreadlocks, she was shaved bald and had a plastic tube sticking out of her head. A reddish mixture of blood and “shock absorbing” brain fluid was oozing through the tube and into a bucket.

Ian took Sharyn's blood pressure with one of those upper-arm cuffs.

“I think it worked,” he said.

Tom, Amy, Helene, and the Burgermeister came and stood around the gurney. Only Chuck and Ramirez stayed in their chairs.

The Chief took his sister's hand. “She's sleeping?”

“Still in a coma,” Ian said. “Though I think we relieved the pressure on her brain. But, Tom…there's no guarantee here.”

“I know. Ian…you're a genius.”

The medic shook his head. “All I did was read a medical book and follow the instructions. Alex did the work.”

Tom turned to the Monkey Boss. “I owe you big.”

“No, you don't,” Alex replied. “I'm an Undertaker.”

Then, without another word, he collected his drill and bits and left the infirmary. We all watched him go.

“Thanks, Alex!” I called after him. If he even heard me, he gave no sign of it.

Strange
kid
, I thought.

“Strange kid,” Dave remarked.

Then, from his chair, Agent Ramirez said, “That…was amazing.”

Tom looked over at him. Then, as we all watched, the Chief of the Undertakers gently released his sister's limp hand and crossed the room to stand over Ramirez.

“Do you get it now, agent?” he asked flatly.

The FBI guy nodded.

“We're not kids,” Tom said.

“No, you're not.”

“We don't need carin' for, lookin' after, guiding, or parenting,” Tom said.

“No, you don't.”

“We're soldiers,” Tom said.

“Yes, you are.”

“And because we got the Sight and you don't…we're the only soldiers there
are
in this war.”

Ramirez said, “I understand that, Jefferson.”

Now it was Tom's turn to nod. He waved the rest of us over, except for Ian and Amy, who stayed with their patient. We all settled into a loose circle of chairs. Then the Chief said, “Okay, you were telling us about Cavanaugh…and her plans to kill the governor.”

“You want to do this
now
?” the FBI guy asked.

“If not now,” the Chief replied, “when?”

Then, as if reaching some internal decision, Ramirez started talking. “The governor and his wife are arriving in Philadelphia this evening for a dinner with the mayor and city council. Then tomorrow…Sunday…they both have some public appearances to make before they go back to the state capital in Harrisburg. The governor's wife is speaking to some school kids at JFK Plaza while the governor and the major will be at the opening ceremonies of the new public pier on Penn's Landing.”

I pictured both spots in my mind.

John K. Kennedy Plaza was a cement square with a big fountain in the middle of it that sat across the street from City Hall, maybe a hundred yards—and sixty feet up—from where we now sat. Except nobody called it “JFK Plaza.” Instead, it got its nickname from a big piece of modern sculpture that stood near its southeast corner. Four giant letters: an “L” and an “O” perched atop an equally big “V” and “E.”

Love Park.

Penn's Landing was called that because, according to tradition, that was where William Penn, the guy who founded Philly, first landed with his ship back in the seventeenth century. These days, it was a fancy waterfront area with lots of expensive shops and restaurants, many located on big piers that stretched out into the Delaware River.

“What makes you think Cavanaugh's gonna try to ice the governor?” Tom asked.

“Nothing concrete,” Ramirez admitted. “Remember that network of cops I mentioned? Well, they started whispering to me about Cavanaugh having her eye on the governor's mansion. From what I could tell, they seemed to think it was funny…the beautiful and popular community affairs director having such big ambitions.”

“But she ain't even an elected official,” the Chief said. “Just a mayoral appointee. How can she just jump from that to
governor
?”

“She can't,” Ramirez admitted. “And if all I had was the rumor, I'd probably dismiss it. But then, from inside the bureau, I got the word that Dashiell had gone to Philly.”

“Dashiell?” Helene asked.

“He's an international assassin…a contract sniper. More rumor himself than actual person. Nobody knows who he really is. But over the past ten years, he's been linked to dozens of assassinations. Corporate big wigs and industry leaders mostly. A few political figures. They say he's an American, maybe ex-Army Special Forces. But again, nobody knows for sure. No known photos of him exist.”

“And you think this dude's come
here
?” Chuck exclaimed.

“A report crossed my desk suggesting that Dashiell may have turned down a job in Budapest because he has a contract in Philadelphia. He tends to work fast, so it's likely that whoever he plans to kill, it'll happen soon. Add that to the fact that the governor's in town…”

“A big coincidence,” said Tom.

“I don't believe in coincidences,” the agent remarked.

“Neither do I. Okay, let's go with the assumption that, for whatever reason, the Corpses have decided to kill the governor.”

“But why hire this Dashiell guy?” I asked.

Helene added, “Yeah! The Queen's got thousands of Deaders. Couldn't they just arrange one of their famous accidents?”

Chuck suggested, “Maybe knocking off a Seer and making it look accidental is one thing. But killing the governor, who's got to be surrounded by guards, is something else.”

“The Queen's got her reasons,” Tom added. “If she hired a sniper, then it probably isn't an ‘accident' that she's after. Maybe a political assassin fits better with her long-range plans…the governor's mansion and all.”

“That's why one of the Corpses can't do the job,” Helene said. “Corpses won't use guns!”

The Chief nodded.

“Crap,” the Burgermeister remarked.

“So what do we do?” I asked. “How do we stop it?”

Tom turned to Ramirez. “Any idea when and where this is gonna go down? The dinner tonight? Penn's Landing tomorrow? Somewhere in between?”

The FBI guy shook his head. “None. I wasn't even completely sure the threat was real. I certainly had my suspicions about Cavanaugh…that she was corrupt, that some of the cops in this city were on her personal payroll. But that's a long way from killing the governor. Besides, as you say, what's her motive? But then something happened that convinced me.”

I said, “The Corpses took you.”

Ramirez nodded. “Probably to find out what I knew…and who I might have told.”

“But they had you so long,” Helene remarked. “And didn't even question you?”

“Maybe they wanted you out of the way,” Tom suggested. “They couldn't risk an ‘accident,' not with a federal agent, not this weekend. So they planned to keep you on ice until Monday…then waste you.”

“It's possible,” Ramirez admitted.

The Chief said, “So we gotta assume that either today or tomorrow, this Dashiell dude's gonna make his play. Because he's a sniper, the play'll likely be outdoors.”

“I have to call the state police,” Ramirez said. “Warn them.”

“Then what?” Tom asked. “Cavanaugh's smart, agent…and she's had time to prep for this. You already know that the Corpses have infiltrated City Hall. What makes you so sure they ain't already in Harrisburg? Maybe a lot of 'em.”

“Crap,” Dave said again.

“What are you telling me?” Ramirez asked.

“I'm
asking
you: How do you know you can trust whoever it is you call?” the Chief replied. “Or whoever it is
they
call? One thing we've learned: the system ain't our friend. And you got it double bad, Agent Ramirez. At least
we
can See who we're dealing with.”

We all watched the FBI guy absorb this. “I'm useless,” he said, sounded resigned. “My country…my whole world's…being invaded, and there's absolutely no way I can help.”

“Ain't true,” Tom told him.

“I can't fight an enemy I can't even recognize.”

“No, you can't,” the Chief agreed. But you
can
help
us
fight 'em. We're an army, and an army needs supplies and intelligence. Sitting in your DC office, you can help with both. We'll work it out. You're one of us now…kind of an Undertakers ‘irregular'…the only adult to know what's really going on. That can't be nothing
but
an asset!”

Ramirez studied the floor for half a minute. “That could work.” Then he shook his head sadly. “I'm so sorry, kids. It's not fair you've all had to suffer through this alone.”

At first, none of us spoke. Sitting beside Helene, I felt my chest tighten up. The FBI guy was right. It
wasn't
fair. I was thirteen years old. So was Helene. Dave was fourteen—or maybe fifteen. I wasn't really sure. And Tom, the oldest of us, wouldn't turn eighteen for another six months.

Not
fair
at
all.

“Life ain't always fair, agent,” Tom replied flatly. “But we play the hand we're dealt…and we play it pretty good. I think you've seen enough to know that.”

Ramirez nodded. “You people know what you're doing. I'm done denying that. But that doesn't make it just.”

Tom shrugged. “A great man I knew once said, ‘Sometimes crying for justice is only another way of complaining.'”

“Who was that?” I asked. But I already knew the answer.

“Your dad.”

Tom and I shared a brief smile.

“So,” I said. “I guess my question still stands. If the Queen really
is
out to kill the governor, what do we do about it?”

Tom asked, “The governor's got guards right? State cops?”

Ramirez nodded.

“Well, we can't trust 'em,” the Chief said matter-of-factly. “So we'll just have to do their job for them.”

In Haven, when the Chief says it's time to do something, stuff happens quickly.

Katie, the current active Boss of the Angels, hadn't been at the impromptu meeting in the infirmary. But as soon as she was notified, she called the Angels together in the rec room.

At that gathering, she laid out the plan.

Three teams would take up positions close enough to the governor to be on hand if something happened while far enough away that—hopefully—they wouldn't get spotted, either by the governor's security team or, worse, by the Corpses.

“And the Deaders'll
be
there,” she said. “No doubt about that! Dead cops. Dead politicians. Dead whatever. But Agent Ramirez says that Cavanaugh's assassin is a sniper. That probably means a rifle and a rooftop. Teams One and Two will take the tall buildings around Penn's Landing. Use binoculars and look for people…
any
people. Remember, this guy isn't a Corpse. Any single person on a rooftop is a candidate. Team Three will be on the ground—as close to the governor as possible.”

“Then what?” Burt asked.

Katie replied, “If either Team One or Two reports anything suspicious, Three's job will be to make some trouble. Break a store window. Trigger a car alarm. Anything to alert the governor's security that something bad's happening.”

“They'll come after us,” Chuck pointed out.

“Yeah,” Katie agreed. “But first, they'll secure the governor, get him out of the open air and into the nearest car or building. That's all we're after. Three's job at that point will be to scatter. Disappear.”

“Risky,” said Zack Perkins, another of the Angels.

“Yeah,” added Tina Woo. “But no worse than the Eastern State gig the other day, and I didn't even get to go on that one. So I'm totally up for this!”

Chuck declared, “Me too!”

“And me!” said Burt.

“Zack's right,” Katie said. “This is a risky one—and not just for Team Three. Teams One and Two could maybe get themselves shot at by a human assassin, someone who's
real
good with a rifle and who won't be fazed by saltwater. So Tom's told me to say that if anybody wants to beg out of this one, it's cool.”

“No way!” Tina exclaimed.

Everyone looked at Zack. “Hey, I just said it was risky! No chance am I walking away from this!”

“Cool,” Katie replied.

“What about us?” Helene asked. “Will and me. The trainees?”

I didn't like Katie's answer. “Don't worry. You're in. We need the bodies. Helene, you're on Team One. Will, you're on Team Two. Rooftops.”

Helene glanced at me, an oddly satisfied look on her face. “Okay,” she said.

“Okay,” I echoed—muttered really.

Because it
wasn't
okay. Not at all.

“Good,” the acting Boss Angel said. “Now, the governor won't get into town for another seven hours. Tom wants everyone in this room to rest up and get themselves fed. Let's all grab some sleep, guys. I think most of us need it. By the time we're up again, mission maps will be drawn up and ready. Let's go.”

The meeting ended with everyone talking animatedly—all except me and Helene. We just stood there, three chairs apart, eyeing each other. After a moment, Katie excused herself between us and followed the rest of the crew out of the rec room.

We were alone.

Helene looked at me.

I looked at her.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

She eyed me. “What for?”

“Freezing you out before…during Tom's demonstration.”

“Uh-huh,” she said. Her eyes blazed. I hated it when her eyes did that. But I kind of liked it too. I wasn't sure why. “And before that, back in the funeral parlor?”

I didn't say anything.

“I
had
her, Will! She wanted that cadaver bad, and she was coming for me, and I'd have nailed her between the eyes with my pistol! But
you
had to throw yourself in the way and almost got Dave killed in the process!”

“I—I know…” I stammered. “I just…um…”

“You just…um…
what
?”

I shrugged miserably. “I was afraid…”

Her eyes stopped flashing, like throwing a switch. “Afraid of what?”

“I didn't want Cavanaugh to…you know…”

“Hurt me?” she finished.

“I guess so.”

She stared at me like I'd just changed colors. And from the warmth in my cheeks, maybe I had. For most of a minute, neither one of us spoke.

Then, quietly, she said, “This is 'cause of what happened at the prison, right?”

“I guess so.”

“So…what?” she demanded, and just that quick, her eyes were flashing again. “You saved my life and now you're responsible for me or something?”

“No!” I exclaimed. “It's nothing like that! It was just…you know…” My mouth inexplicably filled up with cotton, like a magic trick.

“No, Will. I
don't
know. What's up with you?”

I swallowed repeatedly, but the cotton stayed right where it was.

“You almost…died.” I replied.

“I know. I was there. But you saved me. So?”

And then, wishing I was facing a hundred Deaders instead of having this conversation, I blurted, “The way it made me feel…you almost dying.” I felt like an idiot. “I…don't ever want to feel like that again.”

Helene blinked. A moment passed—painfully long. Then another.

Finally, with a very slight smile, she said, “Well, that's about ten percent kind of nice.”

“Helene…”

“And the other ninety percent pisses me off!” she added.

“Oh,” I said.

“Will, you're pretty good in a fight.”

I frowned. “Um…thanks.”

She nodded. “But you also know I can still kick your sorry butt from one end of Haven to the other, right?”

I didn't answer. I didn't have to. We both knew it was true.

Then Helene did a funny thing, a thing that was terrible and awesome at the same time. She took my hand. Her skin felt warm. No, more than warm. It felt hot, almost as hot as my face.

“Get this straight,” she said. Her words were hard, but her tone was soft. “I'm nobody's damsel in distress. What we do is dangerous…and no matter what happens, I've got your back and you've got mine. But I'm
not
your responsibility, and you're
not
my knight in shining armor.”

“This isn't stupid crap like that,” I snapped.

“Then what kind of stupid crap is it?” she pressed. Her anger had morphed into patience, which was somehow worse. “Did you feel this way about Dave last night when the Queen grabbed him?”

“No.”

“You figure he's better in a fight than I am?”

I flashed back on the way the Burgermeister had snapped Cavanaugh's neck like a pretzel stick. At the time, Helene had been sprawled across the wet floor with a fallen cadaver.

But I answered, “No.”

“Do you worry about any of the others? Chuck, Burton, or Zack?

“No.”

“How about the girls. Katie? Tina?”

“No,” I repeated, this time a little defensively.

“So what's different about me?”

My face felt like it was on fire. I looked sheepishly at Helene, who stood there—so close—her face calm, her hazel eyes bright and intense. Suddenly, the cotton in my mouth felt like cement.

“Do I gotta say it?” I muttered miserably.

For about an hour—or maybe it was a few seconds—she didn't answer. Then she did. “No, you don't. Just…knock it off.”

Then she walked purposefully out of the rec room, leaving me alone.

My knees went wobbly, and I sank into the nearest chair. It was cold in the rec room. Heck, it was cold
everywhere
in Haven. But I was sweating anyway, beads of it burning on my forehead. I tried to make some sense of what had just happened and whatever it was that I felt about what had just happened.

Finally, because I couldn't think of a better thing to do, I went to my room. The Burgermeister wasn't there. With a sigh, I kicked off my shoes and stretched out on my cot. It was cold, so I pulled up the blanket and—as I sometimes did—closed my eyes and pretended I was home.

Even though I knew I wasn't.

I didn't think I'd sleep, not with everything that was churning around in my head, but I did. I slept long and hard. If I had dreams, I don't remember them—which, in Haven, is usually just as well.

This time, it wasn't Dave who woke me. It was a ringing phone.

I almost jumped out of my skin, leaping off the cot as if it were on fire. I didn't have a cell phone. No Undertaker did. They were too easily traced. But then the stupid thing rang again, and there was no doubt it was coming from me. I ran my hands all over my clothes, kind of a self pat down until I found it and fished it out of my pants pocket.

It was Cavanaugh's phone—one of the clamshell kind, black and shiny and expensive, but no iPhone. Probably paid for by the city. I wondered how often the Queen had used it.

It rang a third time.

Weirdly, I sniffed it, half-expecting it to smell of death. But instead, it smelled of sweat. Mine. It had been a long night.

I didn't dare answer it, of course. That was against the rules and regs because doing so might give the Corpses a chance to—what was the word Steve used?—“triangulate” the signal. The smart thing would be to turn it over to the Hackers or the Brain Factory. Somebody in one of those crews could analyze it, maybe get some good intel. That was why I'd taken it in the first place, only to forget all about it in the midst of the chaos since.

I popped open the phone and almost hit the “Ignore” button. Then I saw the caller ID and stopped cold.

I knew the number. Of course I did.

But
that's crazy!

Without consciously deciding to do so, I pressed “Answer” and put the phone to my ear. “Mom?”

A voice spoke and the sound of it—the
implications
of it—scared me worse than I'd ever been scared in my life. And that's saying something.

“Your mother can't come to the phone, William.”

Oh, God.