“No,” Brill agreed meekly—and the morning after the motel stop they lost another two hours in a strip mall, hunting suitable shoes, a business suit, and some spray to keep Miriam’s bleached hair from going in all directions.
“How do I look?” asked Miriam.
“Scary,” Brill admitted after a pause. “But it’ll do.”
“You think so?”
“Stop worrying. If any knave denigrates your topiary, I’ll shoot him.”
Miriam gave her an old-fashioned look as she climbed in the cab of the new van, but Brilliana was obviously in high spirits—probably in anticipation of their arrival. It’s alright for her, she’s not the one who has to confront them, Miriam reminded herself. She’s not the one with the unwanted pregnancy. Her stomach burned with acid indigestion, product of stress and too much Diet Pepsi. “Let’s go,” she told Huw (for it was his turn behind the wheel). “I want to get this over with.”
Cerebrovascular incidents were a familiar and unpleasant problem for the Clan: World-walking induced abrupt blood-pressure spikes, and far too many of their number died of strokes. But Miriam still had to grapple with her disbelief as Huw pulled up outside a discreet, shrub-fronted clinic in the outskirts of Springfield. “Forty beds? All of them?”
“Yes, milady.” Huw reached for the parking brake. “It’s the price of doing business.”
She glanced at him sharply, but his expression was deadly serious. “Nobody knows why, I suppose?”
“Indeed.” The engine stopped. “It’s on my research list. A way down.” He swallowed. “I suppose you’re going to say, because I’m young.”
“No, it’s more like I was thinking, it might tell us something about the family talent,” Miriam replied. She dabbed at a stray wisp of hair in the mirror, split ends mocking her. “I knew it was a problem. I didn’t realize it was this big a problem, though. There’s too much to do, isn’t there?”
“I’m working on it,” Huw said soberly. “It’s just that my to-do list is eight years long.”
“I beg your pardon, Miriam.” Brill sounded as tense as she felt. “Visitors hours . . .”
“Alright.” Miriam opened her door and carefully climbed down from the van. She pulled a face as she caught her reflection in the mirror: Appearances counted for a lot when dealing with the elders and the formal Clan hierarchy. “I look a mess. Let’s get on with this.”
Behind her, Yul and Elena were dismounting. “With your permission, I’ll take point, my lady.” Elena winked at her as she swung a sports bag over her shoulder. “I think you look just fine.”
Miriam looked at Brill in mute appeal. “Let her do it, it’s what she does best,” Brill replied. “Yul, rear guard. Huw? Lock up and let’s go.” All of them, Miriam realized, were armed—but Elena was the one with the serious firepower in her bag. What am I doing here? she asked herself as they crossed the car park towards the doors to reception: How did I get into this mess? Unfortunately, that question was easy enough to answer: Mom dumped me in at the deep end, sink or swim. Iris had raised her in the United States in ignorance of the Clan families, for her own reasons—reasons that could be viewed as cold-bloodedly calculating rather than compassionate, depending on whether Iris thought of herself as a player or a fugitive. Not that she could hate Iris—or Patricia, to her extended family—either way; her mother had been under enormous pressure at the time. But I wish she’d prepared me better.
Getting into the small and very exclusive hospital that the Clan maintained for their brainstruck was not a simple matter of walking up to the reception desk and saying, “Hello, I’ve come to visit Angbard Lofstrom.” Even leaving aside the small matter of the DEA’s most wanted list and the question of his place on it, Angbard had enemies, many of whom might well consider hospital visiting hours to be the perfect time to even up old scores. So Miriam was unsurprised when her introductory statement of intent, “Hello, I’ve come to visit Angbard Lofstrom,” resulted in the ornamental receptionist staring vacuously up at her as if she’d demanded money with threats. A serious-faced young man whose dark suit was cut to conceal his sidearm bounced out from behind a glass screen off to one side, sized them up, then relaxed momentarily. “Wer’ isht?” he demanded.
Brill replied in machine-gun hochsprache, too fast for Miriam to catch. The young man looked surprised, but mildly relieved as he replied. Then he turned to Miriam. “My lady, if you please”—he pointed at a seating area off to one side—“to wait there in?” His English was heavily accented.
“Ja—” Brill replied at length. “Bertil says he needs to check our identities before he can let us in,” she explained to Miriam. “He knows who we are.”
“Good.” Miriam allowed herself to be led to the waiting area. “Any idea how long? . . .”
“Not long.” Brill didn’t bother sitting down. “They’ll just need time to make sure we didn’t bring any unwanted company.” Her posture was relaxed, but Miriam couldn’t help noticing the way her eyeballs flickered from doors to windows.
A minute passed before another of the dark-suited security guards came in through a door behind the receptionist’s desk. They always look like Mormon missionaries, Miriam noted, or Secret Service agents. That’s a weakness, isn’t it? Angbard’s guidelines for looking inconspicuous had evolved decades earlier; after her weeks on the run and the tutorial in escape and evasion she’d received from the Leveler underground, their uniform consistency now struck her as a weakness, like wearing a flashing neon sign advertising Clan operation here.
“My lady?” The new guy walked straight over to Miriam and half bowed to her. “If you would come this way, please?”
“I’m bringing my companions,” she said.
“Ah.” His eyes focused on Elena’s shoulder bag. “I would like to see that, please.”
Elena looked as if she was about to object. Miriam shook her head. “Show him.”
Elena opened her bag reluctantly and the guard looked inside. He blinked. “Hmm. You may come, but please unload and safe your arm.” He shrugged at Miriam apologetically. “I am sorry but it is a matter of policy—no armor-piercing loads are allowed. The rest of you, pistols only? No concealed shotguns?” His lips quirked. “Good. If you would follow me . . .”
Elena trailed behind them, her hands buried in her bag, from which muffled clicking noises were emerging.
Another hospital corridor leading to another hospital room, like a hotel with oxygen lines and diagnostic machines in place of the Internet hub and minibar. I’m getting to hate these places, she realized, as she followed the broad shoulders and buzz cut of her guide. “Have you been here before?” she asked Brill.
“Yes.” Brilliana seemed reluctant to say more, so she dropped the topic.
They passed a set of fire doors, then a nursing station, and finally came to a door where a pair of machine-gun missionaries were standing easy. Their guide knocked twice, then opened the door. “More visitors,” he said quietly.
The first thing Miriam saw in the small hospital room was a bed with a body in it and people gathered around, their backs turned to her. Then one of them looked round: “Olga!”