Redlisted (28 page)

“I don’t
know
anything,”
he says. “And there’s not much of a point in
speculation.”

That’s
not true! If we think of possible scenarios, we can come up with
contingency plans.

“Well... all
right. There’s the possibility that this whole thing has no
connection to her. It’s also possible that the killings are the
work of another revenant, and she’s suppressing the story as a
matter of course.”

But what if
neither of those things are true?

“I don’t
want you to worry about what might happen in that case. If she’s
collecting bodies, there’s not much either of us can do about
it.”

Whatever.
I
snort.
Speak
for yourself, but don’t underestimate me.

He blinks at me
silently with an expression that makes me want to backhand him.

“All right,”
he says. “I suppose it’s possible that she needs a huge
amount of blood for a ritual.”

I nod, trying to
be strong and take this information in stride.

“However, if
it’s something that requires that much blood—the blood of
thirty or more people—we’re fucked,” he says in a
level tone. “It’d be different if we knew where she was
holding the ritual, or what her intentions were, or if our Warden
wasn’t in a coma—but none of those things are true. So
there is nothing we can do,” he says, placing special emphasis
on the last six words.

I clench my teeth.
Fine.

He stares out the
windshield, his eyes blank. He doesn’t seem at all pleased that
he won the argument.

I try to focus on
the road.

For a long time,
no one speaks. Aside from the hum of the engine and the gentle
bristling of our tires against the road, the cabin of the car is
silent for at least an hour and a half. Aya has said nothing since we
left Tara’s house, so it surprises me a little when she’s
the one who breaks the silence.

“Adam, I...”
She pauses, sets her jaw, then continues. “Adam, why are we
still going to Red Hook?”

“What do you
mean?”

“The Warden
is unconscious,” she says, her voice deepening.

“And?”

“And we
should use this opportunity to get the head back to Julian.”

“No. That
won’t work.”

“It could
work! It might work. We have to at least try.”

“Julian’s
estate is the first place Mirabel will look for the head, and he’s
not a match for her any longer,” he says in a gentle tone. “You
know that.”

“I don’t
see why you have so little faith in him,” Aya mutters.

“Besides.
Say we were to turn around. What would we do if and when Haruko wakes
up? It’s a long way back to Georgia.”

Aya’s eyes
shift to the side; she takes a deep breath.

“Aya, no.
No. That’s not an option.”

“We can
leave her somewhere safe!” Aya argues. “She’ll be
fine!”

“Jesus, Aya!
She’s a human being,” Adam says. “We can’t
just stash her in a basement somewhere.”

Aya doesn’t
respond.

“At least in
Red Hook, the head will be adequately protected. The Wardens will
keep it out of Mirabel’s hands.”

She shakes her
head.

“If you have
a question,” Adam says, “go ahead and ask it.”

She folds her arms
across her chest and stares out the window.

“Suit
yourself,” Adam says.

The rest of the
evening proceeds without incident. We stop at a big, busy gas
station, where I find food and a bathroom and Adam disappears for
twenty minutes. Aya does not; she stays in the car. I realize I’ve
never actually noticed her go off to hunt. Perhaps she did while
Haruko and I were in the warehouse store, but since then it doesn’t
seem like she’s had the chance.

We get back on the
road. Within hours we’ve reached the shelter: an unoccupied
model home in a suburban housing development. I feel weird pulling up
to the driveway. It doesn’t seem like we should be here, but
with dawn quickly approaching I’m not about to suggest we go
elsewhere.

Using a code
provided on a sticky note on the map, I retrieve a key from a little
lockbox beside the garage door and let myself in. Inside, the house
has been staged to appear as if it were someone’s home. The end
result isn’t very convincing; the furniture and decorations are
all so clean and new and placed with such naked calculation that it
precludes any pretense that anyone could actually live here.

While Adam and Aya
unload the car, I poke around the house, opening several identical
doors in my search for a basement. I open to an empty pantry, a half
bathroom, two empty coat closets, and the garage before finally
finding a staircase leading underground. I leave this door open and
walk into the family room. Hoping for some news from Washington, I
pick up the remote and try to turn on the television. After a few
futile attempts, pushing the power button more and more emphatically,
I realize that the TV is a fake—nothing more than a prop made
of cardboard. I flop over on the couch, tossing the remote away.

A few minutes
later, Adam appears. His knife is out.

Where’s
Aya?
I ask.

He sits down next
to me on the couch. “Downstairs.”

So why don’t
you want to go back to Julian’s estate?

“The reasons
I gave didn’t convince you?”

I
mean, sort of, but...
I shrug.
You
don’t seem to like the Wardens that much.

“That’s
fair.”

Do you trust
them?

His mouth
flattens.

You don’t.

“I trust
them more than I trust Julian,” he mutters.

Why?

He looks at the
door to the basement. “I wish this was something I could talk
about right now.”

You think Aya
is listening?

“Yes.”

Why do you
care?

“If she
fails to cooperate with us, things could go very badly.”

Still. I don’t
get it. If you don’t trust the Wardens, what are you trying to
accomplish by going to Red Hook?

“It’s
the only thing I can think to do to keep the head away from Mirabel,”
he says. “And right now that’s more important to me than
anything else.”

I nod slowly, not
entirely satisfied.

“You should
take the blood,” he insists. “We can talk about this more
later.”

Fine.

He cuts into his
wrist with the knife. I reach for his hand and bring the wound to my
lips.

///

I’m late to
work again. It’s already nine-fifteen by the time I sit down at
my desk. Making sure to keep my back to the surveillance camera in
the corner of my office, I take my laptop out from my beat-up old
backpack and place it in front of me. I hunch my shoulders forward,
pretending to look through the bag as I remove the pinback button
over the lens and switch the camera on. I turn the zoom up as far as
it’ll go and hang the bag on a hook behind me.

This is going to
be a bad day. I’m already having trouble focusing; I’m
surprised I even remembered to take the button off and start
recording. I open my laptop and turn it on. Spira has tacked some
proprietary programs on to the operating system that makes it take a
long time to boot up. It’s all I can do not to fall asleep
while waiting.

My mind wanders.

I snap out of my
reverie some time later and look at the clock in the corner of the
computer screen.

Six-thirty P.M.

My neck hurts and
my hands feel sore, like I’ve been typing all day, but I don’t
remember any of it. Of course I don’t remember any of it. Just
another one of those days, I guess. But this one I got on video.

I put the laptop
back in my bag and replace the button. The camera has shut down
already. I guess its battery died hours ago.

By eight-fifteen
I’m at the library, taking the camera out of my backpack and
plugging its cable into the port. My heart pounds with a mixture of
triumph and terror as I pull up the video editing software. I glance
around anxiously as the video imports. They might already know what
I’ve done. They could be coming for me right now. The Spira
Secret Police could emerge from the shadows at any moment to Taser me
and take me away to a subterranean prison cell.

The video finishes
importing. I put on my headphones, open the video file and start
watching.

My setup seems to
have worked. I can see most of the laptop screen from this angle, and
I can make out a few of my own facial expressions. I watch myself
watching the boot up sequence for a minute or so before I hit
fast-forward. A half-hour’s worth of footage goes by before I
finally look up and get to work.

I stop, rewind,
hit play.

Video Kate opens
an instant messaging system and logs in. She enters the name
“NyghtWynd” and a starred-out password into the provided
field. A list of contacts appears, along with her chosen icon: a
cringe-inducing illustration of a fairy or an elf or some other
spritely humanoid thing after a binge at Hot Topic. I groan at the
sight, chagrined.

Video Kate opens a
chat with another user, someone named Argonaught. I can vaguely
remember this name from one of my past assignments. From what I
recall, he runs a forum that the people at Spira were asking me to
try and infiltrate before I started having memory problems.
Apparently I’ve gained his trust, since now he’s willing
to talk to me one-on-one.

It’s
sickening. None of the resistance I put up has meant anything. Here I
am doing exactly what I railed against so hard and for so long.

I watch as
NyghtWynd—me—and Argonaught start talking. At first, our
conversation consists of the inane banter of online strangers,
awkward and reserved, but before long it gets interesting. I start
hitting the pause button every few seconds, transcribing our
conversation in a spiral notebook. I scribble down each line as
quickly as I can manage, looking over my shoulder minute by minute.

NyghtWynd: So why
did you decide to start the forums, anyway?

Argonaught:
Well... it’s a personal story.

NyghtWynd: I’d
really like to hear it...

Argonaught: Look,
I don’t know you that well. I don’t know.

NyghtWynd: I
promise I’ll keep anything you tell me confidential. I’ll
never tell anyone.

Argonaught: That’s
not it. I don’t care if you tell everyone you know. I just
don’t want you asking questions. I keep getting emails from
skeptics who want to debunk my research... I just don’t feel
like playing those games right now. I’m tired of it.

NyghtWynd: I would
never do that. I believe that what you write on your website is true.

NyghtWynd: Also...
I think I might have had a personal encounter of my own. I’m
not sure about it, but... I think you’re right, I think
vampires really do exist.

Argonaught: Do you
watch a lot of TV?

NyghtWynd: Not
really. I’m always too busy with work. Why?

Argonaught: Stop
watching it altogether. And don’t go to movies, don’t
listen to the radio. That’s how they suppress the memories.
Through mass media. That’s why you’re confused about what
happened to you.

NyghtWynd: Who is
“they”?

Argonaught:
Vampires.

Argonaught: They
do exist. It’s not just a theory.

NyghtWynd: How did
you find out about all them?