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“Any leads on this case are going to point us directly at his killer,” Agent Hunt says, standing. “Just to show you we’re on the level, I want you to see what we’ve already got.” Reluctantly I follow him out into the hall and then through a door into the observation room behind the mirror. He presses a button on some video equipment.
“This is sensitive material,” says Agent Jones, looking at me like he expects me to be impressed. “We’re going to need you to be a smart kid and keep this information under wraps.”
On a small screen my brother’s condo complex comes to life in full color. It’s evening, the sun glowing from the edge of the building as it slips below the tops of the trees. I can see the heat shimmer on the asphalt of the driveway. I can’t quite see his unit, but I know it’s just to the right of the frame.
“The complex put in these surveillance cams recently,” Agent Hunt says quietly. “There was a break-in or something. The angle’s terrible, but we were able to get this footage from last night.”
A figure in a dark coat passes in front of the camera, too close and too fast for the film to register much. There’s no glimpse of the face, but a few thin fingers of a leather glove are visible at the hem of a billowing black coat sleeve. The glove is as red as newly spilled blood.
“That’s all we have,” Agent Hunt says. “Nobody else in or out. It looks like a woman’s coat and a woman’s glove. If she’s Zacharov’s regular hatchet guy, shooting isn’t her usual method of killing. But lots of death workers turn to nonworker techniques after they lose too many body parts to blowback. That’s usually how they trip themselves up. Of course, she could be a new recruit Zacharov sent out blind, just someone to get a job done with no obvious connection to the organization.”
“So you’ve basically got no idea,” I say.
“We believe that the person responsible for the murders found out that Philip was going to finger him. Or her. When Philip came to us, asking to make a deal, we asked other informants about him. We know he had a falling-out with Zacharov and we know it had something to do with Zacharov’s daughter, Lila.”
“Lila didn’t do this,” I say automatically. “Lila’s not a death worker.”
Jones sits up straighter. “What kind of worker is she?”
“I don’t know!” I say, which comes out sounding like the obvious lie that it is. Lila is a dream worker, a really powerful one. Powerful enough to make dreamers sleepwalk out of their own houses. Or dorm rooms.
Hunt shakes his head. “All we know is that the last person to enter Philip’s apartment was a woman with red gloves. We need to find her. Let us focus on that. You can help by getting us the information that Philip died trying to impart. Don’t let your brother’s death be in vain. We are certain those disappearances and your brother’s death are linked.”
It’s very moving, the speech. Like I’m really supposed to believe that Philip’s last wish was for me to square him with the Feds. But the vision of the woman entering his apartment haunts me.
Agent Jones holds out some folders. “These are the names your brother gave us—the men he swore were killed and disposed of by Zacharov’s guy. Just look the pages over and see if anything jumps out at you. Something you might have overheard, someone you might have seen. Anything. And we’d appreciate it if you didn’t show these files to anyone else. It serves both our interests if this meeting never happened.”
I stare at the tape where he’s paused it, like somehow I should recognize the person. But she’s just a blur of cloth and leather.
“The school already knows I went for a ride with you,” I say. “Northcutt knows.”
Agent Hunt smiles. “We don’t think that your headmistress will be a problem.”
A terrible thought occurs to me, but I quash it before I can even articulate it to myself. I would never hurt Philip.
“Does this mean I’m working for you?” I ask, forcing myself to smirk.
“Something like that,” Agent Jones says. “Do a good job, and we’ll recommend you to come aboard with Agent Yulikova. You’ll like her.”
I doubt that. “What if I don’t want to go to this training program?”
“We’re not like the Mafia,” Agent Hunt says. “You can get out any time you want.”
I think of the locked door of the room, the locked car doors. “Yeah, sure.”
They drive me to Wallingford, but by the time I am back on campus, classes are half over. I don’t bother going to lunch. I head to my room, tuck the folders under my mattress, and wait for the inevitable summons from the hall master.
We’re so sorry, he’s going to say. We’re so sorry.
But I’m sorriest of all.
4
PHILIP’S FACE LOOKS LIKE it’s made of wax. Whatever they did to preserve it for the viewing gives his skin an odd sheen. When I go up to the casket to say my final good-byes, I realize they have painted the visible parts of him with some flesh-colored cosmetic. If I look closely, I can see traces of bloodless skin they missed—behind his ears, and in a stripe above his gloves but below the cuff of his sleeves. He’s wearing a suit Mom picked out, along with a black silk tie. I don’t recall him wearing either one in life, but they must have come from his closet. His hair has been pulled back into a sleek ponytail. The high collar of his shirt mostly obscures the necklace of keloid scars that mark him as a gangster. Not that there’s anyone in this room who doesn’t know what his job was.
I kneel in front of his body, but I have no words for Philip. I don’t want his forgiveness. I don’t forgive him.
“Did they take out his eyes?” I ask Sam when I get back to my seat. The room is filling up fast. Men in dark suits, sipping from breast-pocket flasks; women in black dresses, their shoes as pointed as knives.
