Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Jouer”
In checkers: If you ignore your opponent's pieces long enough, they will start to move backwards.
Part One: Black
Riggs lay back in the warm water, absently wriggling her toes in the bubbles that floated perilously close to the rim of the bathtub. The thick smell of gardenias hung over the water and soaked into her skin with the heat. The tub was too small; in order to fit in the water, her bare knees flashed through the suds. She moved them back and forth as the water rippled, watched them appear and disappear into the water. She sighed and let her fingers play along the smooth edges of the tub, back up her side. So many hotel rooms, so many miles, and still a hot bath could wash away all the tension from the day. Even if it took some clout to bring in enough water for a bath.
"So what if it's a day's ration for three people?"
Her voice caused the candle flames to flicker. She'd wedged a dozen candles into the corners of the room, even balanced a few on the edge of the tub, just so the huge panes of window glass would reflect back at her instead of showing the (disturbingly) blank darkness outside. There should have been cars crawling all over the parking lot, lights, messengers coming and going...
She felt her shoulders tighten up again. Damn it all! That bitch McConnell had taken over the whole damn town, settled in like some giant baby-sitter, and told her to go play in a sandbox. McConnell had troops, official authority—hell, she could order the governor around, if she needed to—and here she was, holed up in the university and doing squat.
Riggs ducked her head briefly under the surface, just to get her hair fully in the water. Then she went down again, letting her hair float around her face and tickle against her cheeks, waiting until the pressure for air was almost too much. She came up with a loud breath and more sloshing. She kept her eyes closed while she slowly worked shampoo into her hair, kneading it into her scalp and massaging the tight muscles at the base of her skull. She concentrated on the feel of her fingers sliding across wet skin at the nape of her neck and shoulders. But she couldn't keep her mind from wandering.
Drasil's desertion was a nerve-wracking sign of her loss of power here. Drasil was supposed to be absolutely secured, sweating to jump when she yelled. But Riggs had seen the way the doctor's mouth had quivered during every humiliation today. And there'd been a lot of them.
Too many things were happening. McConnell had completely pulled the rug out from under her, and everything else was slipping away. She'd gotten to the hospital too late to stop the NSA from removing her blood samples. Then she got stonewalled by her contacts at the NSA: "I'm sorry, we have no information on any NSA activities in Herschberg. No, we won't check into it. You're the FBI; you figure it out."
She'd spent the entire day watching the bits and pieces of her plan fall apart. Drasil couldn't find a damn thing in the reservoir. No one was coming down sick (at least, not with the drug). She was getting stepped on by the local cops, the army, the NSA—hell, even by that college principal!
It isn't working. She pushed the thought away and slid under the water again. This time she watched the surface close over her face, watched the world go green with sudsy islands and wispy dark seaweed.
The cold hit her first, as it always did, and she wanted to scream in frustration as she felt control of her body slipping away again. First the heat goes, then feeling in her hands and feet—all the skin goes numb from the outside in, like living inside a shell. Then the voices start. Not from the outside, nothing you can stop hearing. From the inside, the voices pulled her back to that room, back into that—that thing, that form, that—
It was lying down this time. There were still the cold plastic bands around the chest and legs, wide stiff belts to give it some support. But she could feel the slick plastic all along the length of its back. The ceiling above it, the walls and floor, all were frost-covered metal, and its breath pushed out of its mouth in little clouds. From this angle, its breath was all she could see. Not that there was anything to see inside a freezer.
This was the first time it hadn’t been strapped into a chair; she wondered suddenly if it was starting to decay. It was a thought that had never occurred to her before, and she found herself wishing she hadn't thought it now. It had been such a long time. Maybe they start to break down after a while.
“You are failing.”
She tried to make it speak, but she had to settle for coughing. The sound was wetter than it had been last time. Maybe they start to rot. Her gag made it cough harder, and for a moment, she was lost in the body, struggling to rid herself of this horrible, awful, unclean thing that was wrapped around her.
“Enough.”
She felt its breath stop and all the muscles go lax. She lay inside it, struggling for her composure, until the urge to scrape herself against a wall subsided. When its breath came back with a soft sucking sound, she managed to hold in all but a faint whimper.
“You were sent to control that town, to keep events within our plans. You are failing.”
She kept its voice to a whisper. “I’m not done yet. The power of a woman is persistence…”
“Your strategy is faulty.”
“The power of government is control. I went in that way, created an opening, and used my position…”
“The weakness of government is incompetence. By using this position, you have taken this weakness into yourself, as you have taken in their power. You are helpless.”
Incompetent. Yes, that was pretty much the word for the law enforcement agencies in Herschberg. I’d better start using that against them.
“It does not matter. The whirlwind is upon you.”
Oh fuck. Don’t do this, don’t do this… “I can salvage this position. Really. I’m established there, people will talk to me, I can change—”damn it—“adapt my approach to the new situation—“
“You have forgotten your lessons. You have taken their weakness into yourself.”
“The power of a woman is persistence,“ she repeated desperately. Whirlwind, whirlwind, the houses of the whirlwind… She let her mind follow that thought as she went on with the formula. “The houses of a woman are deception, misdirection, and flexibility. I can redirect, I can—be flexible, without arousing suspicions. I can—“
“Enough.”
The silence following that word swallowed the room. She closed its eyes and waited for the next three words, knowing there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to stop them. Please don’t make me change again, not again, please, I’ll do anything… She’d hated herself the first time she’d begged them to stop, hated herself every time she wanted to beg them to stop, but that never kept her from speaking those awful whimpering words. She’d whine like a dog, like the stupid stinking mongrel thing they thought of her, if only that didn’t make it worse. The last time she’d begged they’d changed her for hours, over and over again, just to show her how bad it could get.
She held its breath and kept it very, very still. Maybe if she didn’t say anything, they wouldn’t do it, and that burned. As much as she hated herself for wanting to beg, some small part of her was willing to forgive that. It was natural, an organism’s innate attempt to avoid pain. But that nasty upswelling of hope every time they paused, that almost-prayer for respite, the crashing gratitude—that was horrible. Worse than the rotting corpse they clothed her in.
“What are the houses of the whirlwind?”
It hit her anyway, despite all her self-recriminations. That overwhelming, goddamn fucking thankfulness that made her want to make them happy. Please them. Fuck, she thought as hot tears ran down its face. Fuck you, and thank you, and god please let me die soon.
“The houses of the whirlwind.” Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, he could still change his mind… “The Houses of the Whirlwind are the Houses of Air. The House of the Willow stands beside it. The House of No Words stands within it. The House of the Hawk stands behind it, and none stand before it. The Powers of the Whirlwind are speed and confusion, its weakness is endurance, its enemy is time.” Was that right? Was there more? Whirlwind, whirlwind…
“And your strategy?”
That was easy. Formula. “Find that which bends but does not break, for it has not been moved. The branches of the Willow provide shelter. Seek those within the House of No Words, for they are its heart. Beware the Hawk that circles, and all things that fly, for they are not my friends. Do not seek to end confusion; instead, gather information from the wind, for much that has been hidden will be torn loose in its path.” And give up control of all things large and small… Shit. Oh shit, shit, shit, please, fuck, please
He knew, he knew, he just wanted me to say he was right, to—fucking hell, to say it myself. Fucking bastards. I can’t say it, I can’t say it, why are they making me say it, damn them all to hell… Of course, she knew she’d say it; it would only get worse if she didn’t. And it could get worse. It could always get worse. But it still took her a long time to make the words come out.
“I cannot succeed in my current position.” She made it take a deep breath, then let it out slowly before making it speak—those words. “I must change.”
There was no response, not that she’d expected one. She braced herself against the darkness that came next—knowing it was useless, knowing that it never mattered how prepared she thought she was, but not being able to just let it happen—and dropped into darkness.
The first sensation was pressure, explosive pressure against her chest and her mouth, and she choked around water and air, thrashing back and forth against something hard (the bathtub, you idiot, get out of the bath) before her head struck the edge and bright spots danced against the blackness (you’ve still got your eyes closed) and her hands found something and pulled. Air was a gasping, choking relief against her face as she coughed water over the edge of the tub and onto the floor.
She pulled herself over the lip of the tub and onto the bath mat, kicking over some of the candles and trying to curse (don’t set the place on fire, damn it) while she struggled to get out of the room (there’s carpet in the living room, no porcelain to crack my head on, damn it get out of here). She made it to the doorway and risked a glance back to check on the candles—thankfully put out by the water she’d dumped out of the tub, no leaping flames—when the first waves of pain hit.
She screamed as her knees pulled up against her chin, her feet twisting upwards against the joints, pulled by muscles stretching too tight for her skin. The crack of her skull against the doorframe was almost comfortable by comparison, almost comforting against the snapping sounds of bones broken by her own muscles. Her screams turned into gurgles as the bones of her face collapsed and flowed like burning rivers.
Pain. She came out of it shivering and sore, curled up tight with her hands over her face. Again. The world wavered in and out for some immeasurable time as each individual part registered its pangs—the cramp of leg muscles overworked, the stomach spasms from crying in such a tightly curled position, the pounding of various bruises. She unwound slowly, jerking with the shooting back pain that always followed.
Oh hell. She managed to pull a towel off the rack in the bathroom and wrap it around herself without passing out again. Fuck. They have no idea how hard it is to get a good fake ID these days, do they? Much less a bank account, a place to stay… fuck. The whole town is under quarantine, who the hell am I going to say I am? No visiting cousins, no random tourists, no time to put together a back story… She didn’t have the energy to really get angry. She let her thoughts circle pointlessly in her head, around and around on how stupid this whole thing would be. Not that it mattered. Strategy didn’t talk to facts.
She used the cabinets to wedge herself upright against the mirror. The first place to start is always the face, pick a good name to go with the face. Everything else comes after.
She blinked at her own reflection for a while, then pushed back from the mirror for a better look. The face—hell, the whole package—was damn familiar. I look like… oh, a younger version of… oh hell. Her brain finally caught up with her eyes, and she watched that face go wide with surprise. Oh hell. So much for being inconspicuous.
She pulled on Riggs’ bathrobe and opened her briefcase. She had a few hours until anyone was likely to come by, and she could always tell them Riggs had gone out. She grinned. That would start a few rumors.
The folder in the back of the briefcase was the case file that had supposedly brought Riggs to Herschberg. The little Mankevich girl, the one with the ghastly murder and the multiple bodies and the coma.
Coma. The House of No Words is the House near death.
And yes, the file included an extensive dossier of Jill's background, interviews with her friends and family, photographs. She looked down at photos of the girl whose face she shared, then stared out the window as the first fat snowflakes began to fall.
I suppose one more Jill will add to the confusion nicely.
•
Part Two: Blue
"You know, I do find it surprising that you think your descriptions are imprecise."
"Dave?"
"If you had described it as bright, now, I'd have to argue with you." Dave took a few careful steps to the right, with much the attitude of a connoisseur admiring a new sculpture. He carefully ignored the annoying buzz behind him. "And ragged, while it would qualify, would not have been informative."
"Dave."
"But blue? My friend, blue is its most obvious identifying quality." He took another long look at the sweeping patterns. The buzzing had risen into an almost exquisite whine. "Ah. Aquamarine, sapphire, turquoise, and private security."
"Dave!"
"Yes?" Dave finally turned away from the intensely—blue—object hanging from the tree in the middle of the clearing. Cecil's wheelchair was wedged against a tree root and spitting up snowy chunks of mud. The strange armor the doctors had put around his body kept him from moving his head or shoulders and left his arms dangling at the elbows. So they had given him this mechanical noisemaker and inflicted him on the world.
"The damn thing's stuck again. Turn me around. Oh, and scratch my nose, will you? I can't reach it."
Dave sighed. His friend had demanded three bottles of pill from the doctors; the first pills had been taken in the lobby of the giant hospital building. Unfortunately, the quiet that followed those pills had worn off within an hour, and Cecil had started complaining. Although, to be honest, he complained little more than he usually did. Because of the armor, though, he actually wanted Dave to pay attention to him.
"Oh bloody hell." Cecil stared at the source of that overwhelming blue smell that had been bothering him all morning. "What the hell is that?"
Dave frowned at him, then shrugged. Maybe he really didn't know. "It's a body."
"I know that, you little shit. But who digs up a body, dresses it in an elaborately beaded rental cop uniform, and hangs it from a goddamn tree in the middle of the fucking forest?"
"If you knew what it was, why did you ask?"
The body was impossible to identify at this point. Not because of decay—what little skin could be seen was only vaguely discolored and tight. No, it was dead less than a month, he'd guess. But the face was covered by an eyeless leather mask shaped to fit a human face, possibly this one. The mouth was held open by straps attached to the mask and the rest of the outfit, held open as if the body were screaming.
"Shut up. That thing's been up for a while; look at the snow."
Dave nodded. "No tracks." He looked at the ground around the body. "But the plants here were trampled recently."
Cecil grunted, so Dave went back to watching the body dangle. It hung from a chain in such a way that the body blew with the wind, so gusts of snow would occasionally wash around it and give it the illusion of living movement, turning as if it were looking for something... or someone.
"It's a watch-wyrd."
The girl's voice startled them both, coming as it did from the body. Cecil's wheelchair buzzed as he pushed it backwards. Or rather, her voice came from behind the tree on the other side of the body. And so did she, finally, coming around the tree through one of those brief snow-gusts that hid so many things.
The girl looked familiar. Damn familiar. She shuffled around in front of Cecil, looking grim.
"Who the hell are you?"
Cecil was grouchier than usual; maybe more pills were in order.
She kicked snow off the toe of one shoe, her eyes darting from Cecil to Dave and back again. "You're the police, right?"
Cecil didn't even pause. "I asked you first." Definitely time for more pills.
The girl gave Cecil an impatient frown, then turned to Dave. "Look, I figured if you were out here, you'd want to know. There are a bunch of these things in the woods around here. They're an old superstitious thing, a watch-wyrd. People put them up around something they're trying to trap, or something they're trying to find. I think they're circling Hiawatha Towers."
Something about her aura made his eyes itch. "What do you know about these things?"
"Not as much as whoever put them up." She glanced down at her shoe again, then back up. Coyly. As if all of this was a joke. "Just the name, and what they do. You know. Comparative Religions."
Cecil obviously didn't take well to this attitude. "You're the girl who spoke to the police, the night Jill Mankevich was murdered, aren't you?" He was using his best bad-cop voice, but his nose was twitching like a rabbit.
"Jill Mankevich wasn't murdered."
"Attacked, then."
Dave watched the girl gauge her response. She wasn't lying, exactly, unless she'd picked up the trick of lying with her aura. That was always possible, though usually not in this country, where everyone thought auras were imaginary. But then they believed in money as a real thing, which had always puzzled him. The girl, though. She didn't look like she believed in money. Right now, she looked like...
"Why is everyone so convinced the girl in the hospital is really... Jill?"
The pause was minute, almost swallowed—and so obviously fake that Dave almost laughed. "Are you trying to say she isn't?"
The girl transferred her glare to him. "That'd be pretty stupid, wouldn't it? Since somebody wants... Jill dead bad enough." Again that pause. And again, she wasn't lying, but her aura looked so much like... "All I'm saying is there's a lot of people here in Herschberg who look like her, if anyone bothers to look. And maybe that's not all you're not supposed to see."
After that dramatic pronouncement, she turned and ran off into the woods. Cecil didn't bother to call after her, either. He must have recognized a rehearsed exit line when he heard it, too. She was too much like that FBI agent, Riggs; too caught up in her performance to be reasonable.
"Damn it."
"Yeah. Now, she was imprecise."
"No, that's not what I mean." Cecil glared up at him. "I left my pills in the glove compartment."
•