“Mom had a setback,” Simon said to his son, “but she’s better now.”
He explained. Sam bit down on his lip and listened. When they arrived at the hospital, Simon said, “Go up and sit with your mom. I’ll meet you up there in a bit.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have to run an errand.”
Sam stared at him.
“What?”
“You let Mom get shot.”
Simon opened his mouth to defend himself, but then he stopped.
“You should have protected her.”
“I know,” Simon said. “I’m sorry.”
Simon moved away from his son then, leaving him alone on the sidewalk. He flashed back to that moment. He saw Luther aiming the gun. He saw himself ducking out of the way so that the bullet hit Ingrid instead of him.
What a chickenshit.
But was that what happened?
Had he really ducked out of the way? He didn’t know. He didn’t think that “memory” was real, but... Stepping back, trying to be objective, he realized that he hadn’t seen any of that, that guilt and time were replacing real memories with ones that would forever wound him.
Could he have done more? Could he have stepped in the way of the bullet?
Maybe.
Part of him recognized that this thought was unfair. It had all happened so fast. There was no time to react. But that didn’t change the reality. He should have done more. He should have pushed Ingrid away. He should have jumped in front of her.
“You should have protected her...”
He headed into Shovlin Pavilion and took the elevator to the eleventh floor. The receptionist led him down the corridor to the lab. A lab technician named Randy Spratt greeted him with a latex-gloved handshake.
“I don’t know why we couldn’t do this through proper channels,” Spratt bristled.
Simon opened up the backpack and handed him the three plastic bags of toothbrushes. He had originally planned on bringing just Paige’s toothbrush, but somewhere along the way he decided that if he was going to travel down this dark, dank road, he might as well travel all the way.
“I need to know if I’m their father.” Simon pointed to the yellow toothbrush that had been Paige’s. “This one is the priority.”
Simon didn’t like doing this, of course. It wasn’t a question of trust, Simon told himself. It was a question of reassurance.
Then again, Simon also realized that was a big fat rationalization.
Didn’t matter.
“You said you could rush the results,” Simon said.
Spratt nodded. “Give me three days.”
“No good.”
“Pardon?”
Simon reached into the backpack and pulled out the wad of cash.
“I don’t understand.”
“This is ten thousand dollars in cash. Get me the results by the end of the day, and I’ll give you ten more.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Truth was dying.
At least it looked that way to Ash from the foot of his bed.
Casper Vartage’s sons stood on either side of the bed, two devastated sentinels guarding their father in his final days. Sorrow emanated from them. You could feel the grief. Ash didn’t know the brothers’ real names — he wasn’t sure anyone did — nor did he remember or care which one was the Visitor and which the Volunteer.
Dee Dee stood next to Ash, hands clasped, eyes lowered as though in prayer. The two brothers did the same. In the corner, two gray-uniformed women quietly sobbed in unison, almost as if they’d been ordered to provide a soundtrack for the scene.
Only the Truth kept his eyes open and up. He lay in the middle of the bed adorned in some kind of white tunic. His gray beard was long, so too his hair. He looked like a Renaissance depiction of God, like the creation panel in the Sistine Chapel that Ash had first seen in a book in the school library. That image always fascinated him, the idea of God touching Adam, as though hitting the On switch for mankind.
God in that mural had been muscular and strong. The Truth was not. He was decaying almost in real time. But his smile was still radiant, his eyes otherworldly as they met Ash’s. For a moment, maybe longer, Ash understood what was happening in this place. The Truth was tweaking him with just his gaze. The old man’s charisma, even as he lay sick in this bed, was almost supernatural.
The Truth lifted a hand and beckoned for Ash to come closer. Ash turned toward Dee Dee, who nodded that he should go ahead. The Truth’s head didn’t move, but his eyes followed Ash, again like some sort of Renaissance painting. He took Ash’s hand in his. His grip was surprisingly strong.
“Thank you, Ash.”
Ash could feel the pull of the man, his magnetism. He would have never bought fully into it, of course, but that didn’t mean Ash couldn’t see what was happening and even be moved by it. We all have our talents. Some run faster or are stronger or better at math than others. We watch athletes because they awe us with what they can do with a ball or puck or whatever. This man, Casper Vartage, likewise had skills. Mad skills. You could get lost in those skills, hypnotized by them, especially if you were the kind who didn’t focus or were of a certain mind frame.
Ash was not one of those kind.
Ash was focused, and right now he was curious and upset. He worked by anonymity. There were passwords and anonymous communications via secure websites and apps. He never came face-to-face with those who employed him. Never.
Dee Dee knew that. She knew the dangers too.
He let go of the old man’s hand and glared at Dee Dee. The glare was asking why she brought him here, and her response, a rather serene smile, seemed to indicate that he should have patience.
The two sobbing women left the room, and the two guards, including the bastard who had hit him with the baton, entered. Once again, Ash didn’t like it. He especially didn’t like the smug look on Guard One’s face.
The old man struggled to speak, but he managed to say, “Forever be the Shining Truth.”
The others in the room chimed back, “Forever be the Shining Truth.”
Ritual. Ash hated mindless ritual.
“Go,” the old man said to Ash. “The Truth will always prevail.”
The rest of the room’s inhabitants intoned, “The Truth will always prevail.”
The guard smirked at Ash, then he let his eyes crawl all over Dee Dee, then he wiggled his eyebrows at Ash. Ash showed nothing. He glanced at Dee Dee. She knew.
It was starting to make some sense now.
One of the brothers handed Ash a key fob. “A new car is waiting for you. Untraceable.”
Ash took the key. First chance he got, he’d stop on the road and switch the license plate with a similar car, just to be on the safe side. When they crossed state lines, he’d probably switch it yet again.
“We trust you can take care of this,” the other brother said.
Ash said nothing and started toward the door. The guard smirked at him the whole time. The guard was still smirking when Ash reached him, turned, and faced him. The guard was still smirking when Ash, who had palmed the knife, slashed the blade across the guard’s throat.
Ash didn’t step back. He let the blood from the carotid artery spray his face. He didn’t flinch. He waited for the surprised gasps. They came quickly.
Ash stepped to the other guard, still looking on in shock, and snatched his weapon away from him.
The first guard, the one with the sliced carotid artery, fell to the floor, trying in vain to keep the blood from gushing out of him. It looked as though he were strangling himself. The sounds coming from him were primitive, guttural.
No one moved. No one spoke. They all just watched the guard writhe and kick out until his convulsions slowed and then stopped.
The two Vartage brothers looked stunned. So too the surviving guard. Dee Dee had that same smile on her face. That didn’t surprise him. What did surprise him was the knowing look on the Truth’s face.