Page 14 of Flames and Blood

“I can’t say that for sure either.”

“If there’s nobody around, then there’s nobody to stop us.” He’s quiet for a second. “You know what I think?”

“You’re going to tell me.” I’m still looking at the building.

“I think we should stop dicking around out here and just go in there.” He’s bracing to move. “They’re in the middle of a shift change or something, and they’re not expecting us. Let’s take it.”

“That’s the first useful thing anyone’s said tonight.”

“I’m full of them.”

“Wait here. Watch the fence.” I’m moving before he can answer.

The fence gives at the dark corner where the camera under the eave points at the vehicles instead of the ground. Odile goes over first, coat and all, and lands without disturbing the gravel. I follow. The kid comes after me, which was not the arrangement.

“You’re supposed to be watching the fence,” I tell him.

“Meyer’s watching the fence. He’s better at it than I am.” He’s moving without looking at me. “Also, I’ve never been inside one of these.”

“There’s nothing to see.”

“Then it won’t take long.”

Inside the east door, the hallway’s half-lit, every second fixture dark. Fresh paint over new concrete. Bleach under it. And under that, faint and warm, one thing that’s not human. She was in this building long enough to leave her scent in it.

I pause.

The kid stops with his hand on the wall. “What is it?”

“Her.”

“There’s nobody here.”

“There was. One.”

He doesn’t ask again. Somewhere deeper in, a radio’s playing in a break room, and a chair creaks.

Footsteps. We both freeze.

A guard comes around the corner with a mug in his hand, and I have him by the throat before the coffee hits the floor. Pressure, patience, his knees going. I lower him the rest of the way myself and set the mug upright on the tile beside him.

“You could have said,” the kid says, from a step back.

“Said what?”

“That you were going to do that. I had a wrench up.”

“Put the wrench down.”

Odile’s already gone toward the west wing, no sound to mark it, which is her way of telling me she doesn’t need help.

The intake room is bare aside from a desk and a chair. There’s a shelf behind it with a dozen ledgers standing on it. I take two down. Blank. Blank. Every page in both.

There’s one book open on the desk. New. First page.

Two lines written on it. A designation beside an entry date. Beneath it a transport order signed off hours ago with a route number where a destination should be. I write them down.

“That it?” the kid says.