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“I’m a special case too. Philip told you—or at least he strongly implied—that he knew the identity of a transformation worker, right? So do I. But I’m not a sucker like him, okay? I don’t want a bunch of empty promises. I want this contract signed by an attorney from the Justice Department. Not by you two jokers. Then I fax it to my lawyer. When I get her okay, I’ll tell you everything.”
Agent Hunt looks a little stunned. I don’t know if they guessed the killer was a transformation worker or not, but I can’t take chances. Besides, I have only a few cards to play.
“And if we can’t do that?” Agent Jones asks. He doesn’t seem so friendly right at the moment.
I shrug my shoulders. “I guess neither of us gets what we want.”
“We could pick up your mother. You think we don’t know what she’s been up to?” Agent Hunt says.
“I don’t know what she’s been up to,” I say, keeping my voice as mild as I can. “But if she’s done something wrong, then I guess she’s going to have to pay for it.”
Agent Jones leans in across the table. “You’re a death worker, right, kid? You strongly implied that the last time you were here. Maybe something went wrong before you knew how to control your work? It happens, but you think we aren’t going to find out about a missing kid somewhere in your past? Then it’s going to be too late for deals.”
It’s going to be too late for deals much sooner than that, I think.
I wonder what it would be like working for the Brennan family. I wonder what it’s like to kill someone when you have to remember it.
“Look,” I say, “I have outlined my conditions in the document in front of you. In exchange for immunity I will give you the full name and location of the transformation worker and proof of one or more crimes committed by that person.”
“It’s Lila Zacharov, isn’t it?” Agent Hunt says. “We already know that. Not much of a secret you’ve got there. She disappears, and her father suddenly gets a new assassin.”
I touch the top of the paper, tracing the words, willing myself not to react. Finally I look up at them both. “Every minute you spend talking to me is a minute you’re not talking to the Justice Department. And in a couple of minutes I am going to get up and walk out of here and take my offer with me.”
“What if we don’t let that happen?” Agent Hunt says.
“Unless you plan on bringing in a memory worker to actually go through my brain like it’s a deck of cards, you can’t force me into a deal—and, let’s face it, if you were going to do that, you would have already done it. I guess you could physically keep me here, but you can’t keep me interested.”
“You better really have the goods,” Agent Jones says, standing up. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll make the call.”
They leave me alone in the room. I figure I’m going to be there a while. I brought my homework.
* * *
When they bring me back the first contract, I call my lawyer. Unfortunately, she doesn’t know she’s my lawyer quite yet.
“Hello?” Mrs. Wasserman says.
“Hi, it’s Cassel,” I say, letting all the fear I actually feel creep into my voice. The agents have left me alone in the room, but I have no doubt that they are recording everything I say. “Remember when you told me I should ask you if I needed anything?”
I hear the hesitation in her voice. “Did something happen?”
“I really need a lawyer. I need you to be my lawyer.” I have no doubt that right now she’s wishing she never took those violets from me.
“I don’t know,” she says, which isn’t no. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
“I can’t really explain.” Knowing people is important to conning them. I know Mrs. Wasserman wants to help worker kids, but she also likes to know things. It doesn’t hurt to add a little incentive. “I mean, I want to tell you, but if you’re not my lawyer… I shouldn’t put you in that position.”
“Okay,” she says quickly. “Consider me your lawyer. Now explain what’s going on. My caller ID has you calling from an unlisted number. Where are you?”
“Trenton. The federal agents here are putting together a contract to try to get me immunity if I give up the identity of a transformation worker—a murderer,” I say, in case she starts feeling protective of the unnamed worker. “But I need you to make sure the immunity deal is airtight. Plus, they want me to work for them. I need to make sure I can finish out the year at Wallingford before I start. And there’s one other thing—”
“Cassel, this is very serious. You never should have tried to work out a deal like this on your own.”
“I know,” I say, happy to be chastised.
It takes hours and I wind up having to call Daneca’s mother four times with changes before she approves the paperwork. Finally I sign. The Justice Department signs. And since I am still a minor, Mrs. Wasserman sends over the page with my mother’s forged signature—the one I prepared in advance and left on Mrs. Wasserman’s desk on Saturday, flipped over so it looked like just another piece of blank paper. She doesn’t, of course, know that it’s forged although I imagine she must guess.
Then I tell the Feds who the transformation worker is.
