Harmonic (8 page)

CH
APTER TWELVE

Y
ou really think this Sal guy's still alive?” Laurel asks as we pull into the parking garage. Between oversleeping, my emergency stop for fresh clothes at one of the neighborhood boutiques, and our plan for today, this is the latest I've gone in to CCM since I started training.

The last thing I need today is to be conspicuous. Not when we're so close.

“I hope so. He's the key to tracking down the moles in the Consort. Someone must have helped him fake that report, all those years ago.”

I'd planned on finding a cell in the Echoes—not in CCM.

“What are we going to do if we find him?” she asks.

“Garnett will take him into custody.”

She kills the ignition but makes no move to leave the car. “Are you sure that's the best plan?”

“That's always been the plan,” I say. “I locate the Free Walkers and Garnett handles the arrests.”

“Sal might not know anything. Let's wait to tell Garnett until we've talked to him ourselves. Find out if he's really a threat.”

“Without backup?” I ask. “No way. Not after last night.”

“He's probably seventy-five years old,” she points out. “Even I can outrun him. If you report this to Lattimer, there's a chance the mole might see it. Who knows how high up this goes?”

She has a point. Even Garnett, affable as he is, could be on the wrong side. I barely know him. He's deflected every question I've asked, turning them around on me.

“I have to tell him about the cleaving. He'll think it's weird if I don't.”

“If he's a spy, he already knows,” Laurel mutters.

We board the elevator through the parking garage. When the car stops at the lobby, Garnett joins us. Laurel raises her eyebrows, like this is significant. I roll my eyes.

“Hey there,” he says, lifting his coffee in greeting.

“Morning,” I say. His gaze darts to Laurel and back to me. “Garnett, this is—”

“Laurel Pruitt,” he says, cutting me off. “Pleasure.”

She smiles tightly as he shakes her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Addie and I are on desk duty together. I imagine she's told you about me.”

Laurel hums something that might be agreement, but doesn't elaborate. Garnett's head tips to the side as he studies her, as if he knows I've told her more.

I'm relieved when the elevator stops at the Archives. Laurel brushes a quick kiss over my lips. “See you after work?”

I nod as she steps out. Next to me, Garnett is turning red and staring at the floor. “Have a nice day,” he mumbles.

Laurel doesn't reply, and the doors slide shut. For the rest of the ride, I keep my hands folded and my gaze straight ahead, avoiding Garnett's curious look.

“What's on tap for today?” he asks once we're in the office. “More cut sites?”

“Maybe later,” I say. “I had a run-in with some Free Walkers last night.” Some instin
ct keeps me from mentioning Laurel's involvement.

His eyebrows shoot up. “Without me?”

“I got the report while I was at home. I figured it wouldn't be a big deal to check it out.”

“By yourself?” He frowns. “We're supposed to be partners.”

“We are,” I say, sidestepping the question of whether I went alone. “When I got to the Echo, the Free Walkers had started a cleaving, but it wasn't the usual procedure.”

I try to describe what I witnessed—their staccato movements and the strange, split nature of the unraveling—but Garnett shakes his head.

“I never saw them in action before,” he says. “What happened next?”

“They spotted”—I almost say
us
, but catch myself—“me. I made it back through the entry pivot right before it disintegrated.”

“Close call.” His gaze is fixed on me. I shift under the weight of it. “I wish you'd told me about it first. Four against two isn't great odds, but at least I've got training.”

“I know. It won't happen again.”

“Good.” He drops his empty coffee cup in the trash. “Anything else I should know about?”

I hesitate, thinking about Sal and cinnamon coffee. The tingling along the back of my neck has returned.

Four against two,
Garnett said. How would he know the Free Walkers used four-person teams if he'd never seen them before? I didn't mention it, and Consort Cleavers always work in threes.

This is how they keep an eye on you,
Del told me.

But there are other explanations—Garnett's an expert on Free Walkers; Lattimer might have filled him in. And surely, if he had been there last night he would have helped us.

Unless he was there as a Free Walker. Unless Garnett's the mole.

“Addie?”

“It's nothing,” I say, rubbing a hand over my nape. “I'm just tired.”

“Running for your life will do that.”

“Laurel's pulling some reports for me,” I say. “I want to look them over before we head out.”

“I bet,” he says,
sotto voce
.

I settle down to work, poring over the report on Sal's death, scrutinizing the outdated photo. It's definitely the man I remember from the coffee cart, but I have no way to track him down. It's been too long since my last visit to that Echo; I can approximate the pitch, but that's not good enough. I need the exact frequency, and the only person who knows it is refusing my visits.

“What are you looking for?” Garnett asks as I scowl at the screen. I'd nearly forgotten he was there, he's been so silent and unmoving. Like a hunter in a blind. “Those Walks are too old for me to track anyone.”

“Oh. Yeah. I was . . . getting some background.” I push my chair back. “I should go check on those records.”

Garnett's eyes narrow. “Want company?”

“Nah,” I say, forcing brightness. “Why don't you talk to the team that was attacked? See if they remember anything else about the Free Walkers.”

“Sure,” he says with a wry grin. “I'll get right on that.”

•    •    •

In the Archives, Laurel beckons me to one of the back rooms. “I pulled all of the records from Sal's Walks,” she says, closing the blinds.

“How did you know?”

“Because I know you,” she says, standing so close that I feel light-headed.

“Impressive,” I say, surveying the pile of old reports and maps.

“Not really. There's nothing in here about a carousel, or a coffee cart, or anything that will lead us to him. Monty wasn't officially Walking when he took you there, so we don't have a record of it.”

“Great. Another dead end.”

“I'm sorry,” she says, touching her forehead to my shoulder. “I was hoping . . . hold on. Monty kept a journal, didn't he? Even after he stopped working for the Consort?”

I nod. All of Monty's Walks are recorded in those journals, right up until the day he was captured. I spent hours sitting with him at the kitchen table while he filled page after page with his cramped, spidery writing.

“Call Del,” she urges. “Ask her to find the frequency, and we can check it out after work.”

“You are brilliant,” I say, giving her a fast kiss that turns slow.

“I am,” she agrees. “One of many reasons to love me.”

•    •    •

To avoid Garnett's questions, I call Del from a coffee shop down the street.

“Quit hovering,” she answers, in a thick, gritty voice. “I'm up.”

“Yes, you're a ray of sunshine,” I say. “Go downstairs. I need your help.”

“Huh. First time for everything, I guess.”

I hear the rustle of blankets and the thud of her feet hitting the floor, a muffled curse.

“Are you in the living room?”

“I'm getting there. I need coffee.”

“Funny you should mention that.”

“There's nothing funny about caffeine deprivation,” she mutters, clomping downstairs.

“Do you remember that park with the carousel Monty used to take us to?” I hum the tune, and after a minute, Del joins in.

“Kind of.”

“Good. I need you to find one of the journal entries for those Walks.”

“Why?”

“Because I need it.”

My evasion has piqued her interest. “But
why
do you need it? You're holding out on me.”

“Del, how many times have I done something for you without asking questions? It's payback time.”

She snorts, then falls silent. I can hear her leafing through the pages, and I wait, fidgeting and fighting the urge to bite my nails.

“Didn't hear you leave this morning,” she says, with studied nonchalance.

“You can't hear anything from three flights up,” I hedge.

The line goes quiet.

“Del?”

“Laurel seems nice,” she says softly.

“She is.” But even now, I worry that I can't make it work. Can't balance both halves of my life without damaging both. “But it's complicated.”

“You could be happy,” Del says. “If you're going to waste it, you deserve to be miserable.”

She might have a point.

“I don't know if I can do it,” I say, nibbling on a thumbnail. “Be a Walker and be with her.”

“They're not mutually exclusive,” she replies. “I get that you have weird perfectionist issues, but get over yourself. You're the best around, and everybody knows it. Doesn't mean you can't also be with Laurel.”

“What if it does? I've seen what loving someone did to Monty,” I say in a low voice. “What it did to you. I think your logic may be flawed.”

She's silent for a moment. Then, “I left him in that Echo. I watched the world unravel, with Simon in it. With my heart in it,” she says, and her voice breaks on the words. “But at least he loved me back. The Key World won't love you back, Addie. Neither will the Consort. You're just another Walker to them, no matter how good you are. But Laurel will. So stop being an idiot.”

I blow out a long, frustrated breath. She's not wrong, but the last person I should be getting relationship advice from is someone so devastated by her own loss that she can't get out of bed some days.

“Can you just look for the journal entry, please?”

“It's right here.”

I grit my teeth. “And you were going to tell me . . . when?”

“When I got done making sure you pulled your head out of your ass.”

“Fabulous. Very classy.” I take a breath, cooling my annoyance. “Does he list the frequency?”

“Yeah. Want me to read it to you?”

“Sure,” I say, fumbling for a pen and paper. “Go ahead.”

She rattles off the string of numbers and I read them back to confirm.

“Addie,” she says, right before we hang up. “Be careful, okay?”

“I'm always careful. You should try it sometime.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

E
ither Garnett and I are too slow, or the Free Walkers are improving, because we find no trace of them all afternoon, despite visiting more than twenty of the frequencies on the Repertoire. The cut sites are totally normal, and the worlds still waiting to be cleaved are as dissonant as we expected.

Garnett's strangely philosophical about our failure to find a fresh trail. “Better luck tomorrow,” he says as I pack up.

I need luck
tonight
.

I pick up Laurel at her apartment. She's changed into jeans and a maroon sweater—and sneakers. “In case we feel like running,” she says, and I frown, remembering Garnett's comments.

Once we're in the car, she asks, “You're staying with me tonight, aren't you?”

“I hadn't thought about it,” I say. “I'll need to check in with my family. Pick up some clothes, too. Buying a new outfit every day won't cut it.”

“You could move into the city,” she says. “You wouldn't have to fight traffic all the time.”

I could. Most apprentices move downtown after they get their license—I'm the rarity that lives at home. When Monty was living with us, I felt obligated to stick around and help. Now I'm worried about leaving Del. My parents think she's rattled about Monty, that she'll get over it in time. She's drowning on dry land, and nobody but Eliot and I recognize it. “Things are complicated right now.”

She winds a lock of hair around her finger. “Thought you might say that. When do I get to hear about these complications?”

“After we finish untangling this one.”

She purses her lips. “Fair enough.”

What's not fair is how defensive her questions make me. Move into the city, tell me about your family's deep dark secret, let's catch the bad guys together. I'm accustomed to being solitary, to keeping my focus in one place. Between Del's lecture, Laurel's questions, and the very real possibility of a spy in CCM, I feel prickly and scattered and scared.

The pivot we need is less than a mile from my house. My nerves stretch tighter with every step. I want to find Sal, make my report, and leave it in Lattimer's hands. The longer I'm involved, the larger the target on my back—and Laurel's.

We cross through a pivot outside the old grade school. The new grade school has been around for as long as I remember—this old one now houses the historical society—but it's always going to be new, even if this building burns to the ground. The past never stays in the past. It reaches forward to shape the future, no matter how hard you try to escape. Every Echo carries old worlds within its strings.

When we arrive, the entire neighborhood is gone, at least four square blocks. A massive park has taken its place: There are running trails and sports fields, tennis courts and playgrounds, a library and a deserted skate park.

“The carousel should be over there,” I say, pointing to a path that curves behind a small pavilion.

“I don't hear it,” Laurel says.

“It probably doesn't run in winter.” I try to remember if Monty ever brought us here at this time of year. “There's an ice rink farther down the trail. I bet the food carts follow the kids.”

It's too cold and too dark for the park to be crowded—from here, only the library seems popular. A few diehard runners pass us by, and it's easy not to make contact. I listen for the sound of another Walker's Key World signal, but we're the only ones around.

The carousel stands lonely and silent, waiting for springtime riders. The mermaid I rode is still there, with her rosebud lips and turquoise tail and knowing smile. I run my hand over the chipped paint and curse Monty for tainting yet another memory.

Beyond the carousel is a thick grove of trees, lights towering in a circle on the other side. Nighttime skating, no doubt. Anticipation quickens our pace, and we hurry down the path.

Halfway there, the sirens start.

“It's probably a kid,” Laurel says when I turn to her, dismayed. “Someone broke an ankle.”

The multiverse is infinite. Anything is possible, including coincidences. But today I don't believe in coincidence. I believe in gut instinct, and so I break into a run. Despite her complaints, Laurel keeps up just fine.

When we burst from the lamplit grove, the ice rink spreads out before us, but nobody's skating. Parents are herding children to the far side of the rink, and a crowd of onlookers is gathering in the circle made by the food carts. Cops are shooing them away in booming bass tones, pausing every few minutes to talk into their radios.

I scan the carts, my heart beating a staccato rhythm.

The red and white and green cart—painted to match the Italian flag—is barely visible through the wall of police. But it's hard to miss the pool of red spreading along the ground, or the single hand reaching out from behind the cart, fingers curled as if touching the strings.

“Sal!” The Echoes can't hear me, but maybe he can. If I'm not too late. Laurel grabs for me but I shake her off, circling around. The police are focused on keeping the crowd at bay, leaving the back side of the cart unattended.

I'm definitely too late.

Sal lies on the ground. He's wearing the same navy blue stocking cap I remember, his head turned toward me. I focus on the embroidered Chicago Bears logo, because his eyes are sightless but staring, accusing me.

Too late.

I clap my hands over my mouth to keep from screaming, and gag instead. There's so much blood, all from the savage gash across his throat, the pool spreading sluggishly across the cold cement.

It must be recent, I realize, or the blood would have frozen.

The person who did this might still be here.

I spin, listening for the sound of the Key World, some other Walker, but all I hear is Laurel and the sirens. A crop of pivots has sprung up around us, newly formed, but there's too much noise and too many escape routes for us to give chase.

Sal's body is still warm but the trail is already cold.

“Don't look,” Laurel says, her voice clogged with tears. “
Don't look.
I'm so sorry. Come on.”

She hauls me to my feet—I don't remember sinking to the ground—and tugs me away. Nobody gives us a second glance, and I listen to the crowd, their tears and their shouts and their questions.

“I talked to him not five minutes before it happened,” a woman says. The cinnamon-scented steam rising from her cup corroborates her story, and a female police officer nods, notebook at the ready. I stop and Laurel squeezes my hand so hard it hurts. The pain is good. It snaps me back to myself. I edge closer, listening in.

“Can you tell me what happened?” the officer says.

“I ordered my coffee, like usual,” she says. “Sal can't hear very well. He's always forgetting to turn his hearing aid on, so he learns your regular order really fast.”

Laurel murmurs, “If he couldn't hear, he'd be resistant to frequency poisoning.”

“You didn't speak to him?” the officer asks.

“He can read lips,” she replies. “He does—did—pretty well.” She starts to cry, and the officer waits patiently while she collects herself.

“So you ordered your coffee,” she prompts when the tears subside.

The woman nods. “Cream, no sugar. He always said I was so sweet I didn't need extra. Such a charmer. . . .”

“Did you notice anyone else nearby?”

She wipes her face with the heel of her hand. “I thought I saw something . . . a person, out of the corner of my eye. But when I turned my head, there was no one there. The glare from the lights makes it hard to see.”

The killer could have been three feet away and she'd never realize it.

She continues, “I only looked away for a moment. My son was calling to me, and when I turned back to say good night . . . he had disappeared.”

“The assailant?”

“Sal,” she says, and resumes crying. “I didn't see him at first, but there was a noise, like water going down the drain . . . and then I saw the blood.”

“You didn't see anyone suspicious?”

“No,” she wails. “What if he's still here? The person who did this?”

The officer turns away and mutters into her radio, then says, “Ma'am, I assure you, we've secured the area. Why don't we get you someplace warm? Let that boy of yours check out a police cruiser up close?”

I stare at Laurel. “Someone slit his throat in front of all these people.”

“And if the killer touched only Sal, nobody would have seen him leave.”

“Or her,” I say, thinking of the girl in the hoodie. “Why didn't he run? Fight?”

“Maybe they snuck up on him. But he should have . . . oh.” She tapped her ear. “The hearing aid wasn't turned on. He wouldn't have heard the killer's signal.”

My stomach churns and my mouth tastes sour. He never stood a chance. More police arrive, and an ambulance. They put up a screen to shield the crime scene from the throng of people, and the officers are taking the names of everyone in the crowd. The artificial lights give everything a grainy, washed-out feel like an overexposed picture.

I've seen enough.

We leave, taking the nearest pivot. The familiar street noises of home are both reassuring and surreal. It's tempting to write off what we've seen as a hallucination. Echoes aren't real, I remind myself. But Sal was. And now he's gone.

“We have to tell Lattimer,” I say when we're in the car, heater full blast and doors locked. Laurel checked the backseat as carefully as I did before getting in. “The Free Walkers must have known we were going to see him. They wanted to get to him first.”

“How would they have known?” she asks.

“The mole.”

She shakes her head. “I don't think murder's their style.”

“Sal knew who the Consort moles were, seventeen years ago. If they're still around, his arrest would put them in danger.”

“He kept those names secret for almost twenty years. Why would he tell us?” The streets slide by in a blur of lampposts and cozy front windows.

“Because I'm Monty's grandd
aughter? Loyalty to his old First Chair, or the good old days, or maybe he'd be looking to cut a deal. The point is, the Free Walkers thought he was a threat, so they killed him. Maybe Garnett can go back tonight and trace the killer's signal.”

“Maybe it wasn't the Free Walkers,” Laurel says, her voice low and halting.

“Who else would it be? The Consort?” I shake my head at how ludicrous it sounds, but she's serious.

“How would the Free Walkers have known we were going there today?” she asks. “Did you tell anyone?”

“Only Del.” My stomach flips over. “She's not a Free Walker, Laurel. She's not the Consort's biggest fan, but she likes Monty even less. She wouldn't tell them anything. Maybe the mole noticed you pulling up Sal's walks.”

This is what I was afraid of. Helping me has put Laurel in danger.

“You're saying this is my fault?”

“No! I'm saying that the only times we've talked about Sal are at your house, my phone call with Del, and in the Archives.”

“It's not proof,” she says stubbornly. “I don't think you should say anything to Garnett or Lattimer. Not yet.”

“Now you're saying Lattimer's the mole?” I throw up my hands. “Laurel, this isn't a game. Sal died. The Free Walkers killed him. We need to mobilize against them or we could be next.”

“Why are you so willing to trust Lattimer?” Laurel asked. “Don't you think it's weird that he gave you this project? Your grandfather was a Free Walker. Your sister was suspended, and all sorts of weird stuff went down during that anomaly—and
you
were involved. But the Consort gives you carte blanche? Your own team? I might be only an archivist, not an almighty Cleaver, but even I can see it's suspicious. Who's to say he didn't give you this project so he could keep an eye on you?”

Exactly as Del predicted. Suddenly, I'm furious with myself for not seeing it, and furious with Laurel for doubting me. My voice shakes as I say, “He gave me this project because I'm good. That's it.”

“He gave you this project because he knows you'd kill yourself trying prove it. What if Del
is
a Free Walker? Would you turn her in?”

“Del's not a spy.”

“But if she were? It's your job, after all, and nothing matters more. Not your family, or me. Not even your own safety.”

“You're worried they'll come after me?”

“They know your name, Addie. They know your movements. I'm an apprentice archivist with a shoe addiction. You're Montrose Armstrong's granddaughter and Randolph Lattimer's pet.
Everybody
knows who you are.”

“But not because I'm good.” Not because I'm the best.

She closes her eyes briefly. “That's not what I'm saying.”

“What do you want me to do?” I say, but the words come out dull and flat.

She lifts up her hands, lets them fall. “Hold off telling Garnett for a little longer. We can figure it out together.”

“Lie to the Consort?” I've done it once, and I don't care to repeat the experience.

“Not lie. Postpone. If the Consort isn't behind this, waiting will let you give them a clearer picture. And if they are . . . then they already know.

“In which case, I should report it, or they'll know I'm holding back,” I say. “This is my career, Laurel.”

“It's your life.”

“Same thing.” Too late, I realize what I've said.

“It's not,” she says finally, and for the first time she sounds defeated. As remote as she did when I approached her in the archives. “You really do hate change, don't you?”

“My parents are home,” I say stiffly, reaching for the door handle. “Come in and have dinner. We'll figure this out.”