Page 125 of The Pansy Paradox
“Would it help,” I ask, “if we brought one back?”
“Gwennie would love it.” Mort shields his eyes and scans the development. “It might actually give us some clues to what’s going on, between that and whatever data we can pick up going in.”
I shut my eyes. November. Six years ago. No snow yet, but the trees in the cemetery had shed their leaves, and the grass was more brown than green. The air had that winter bite to it. In my mind’s eye, I see the two of us, Mort and me, all baby-faced and hopeful. Jack stayed back with my mother, helping with Thanksgiving dinner. We returned to the heady scent of sage and the promise of warm pumpkin pie.
And yes, after Mort proudly displayed the prize in his hands, my mother made him return it to the development before it could ruin someone else’s Thanksgiving, never mind our own. We were halfway there when it vanished in a fracture of light. In the aftermath, my nose bled enough to soak the front of my jacket.
I unsling my umbrella and point to the holes in the fence. “I probably went there first.”
“If the fence goes, we all go,” Mort says in an uncanny imitation of my mother. A moment later, he cringes. “Sorry, Pansy-Girl. I didn’t mean?—”
No, Mort never does. “It’s okay. If she were here, it would be something she’d say.”
Now he unslings his umbrella and adjusts the settings. “You know what? I’m going to walk the perimeter. See if any of those fissures have extended into the cemetery, get a sense of what’s happening beyond this.” He jabs the point of his umbrella toward the development.
“Do you need me to come along?”
“Actually, you’re the base. I’ll relay the data to your umbrella. That’ll give us a fuller picture of what’s happening here.” He graces me with a roguish smile. “But you know, if I’m swarmed, I’d appreciate a hand.”
I can’t help it. I manage a laugh. For a moment, he cups my cheek.
“Ah, there she is, our Pansy-Girl.” He strikes out for the left side of the development, nodding over his shoulder toward the right. “See you on the flip side.”
Chapter 52
Henry
King’s End, Minnesota
Friday, July 14
It was the rattle of his umbrella that pulled Henry from his contemplation of the ceiling. The racket was insistent rather than sullen. He wasn’t quite ready to face Screamers. The dull ache in his chest told him that. But his legs had enough strength, and stealth, to move through the house.
Henry marveled at that. He hadn’t healed this quickly after the Sahara, and he’d been airlifted to an Enclave trauma center in Cairo. When things were settled, he’d insist Gwyneth research the teas, the tinctures, and yes, the salve-from-hell.
He eased the office door open by degrees and put a finger to his lips the moment the umbrella stand came into view. Gwyneth’s seemed supremely bored. His umbrella and hers had never established a rapport. Plucking his own from the stand wouldn’t be cause for alarm.
From down the hall came the clank of lab equipment, the scrape of a chair, and the murmur of conversation, someone on speaker, someone with a resonating voice.
Someone who sounded a great deal like Reginald Botten.
“No, it’s my professional opinion that he’s simply not ready. You must understand. Henry was gravely injured. He’ll need twenty-four hours, at least, if he’s to be an active participant.”
The sound of running water drowned out both Gwyneth’s voice and Botten’s reply. For a moment, Henry hesitated at the threshold. Eavesdropping, if he could manage it, might prove fruitful.
Then his umbrella shook again, quieter this time but just as insistent. So, instead, Henry pulled it from the stand and retreated to the office.
He was halfway to the couch when he understood what was going on. The buzz of incoming data radiated through his palm. His umbrella was shaking, trying to hold as much as possible in its buffer.
With quick, precise movements, he tugged his second laptop from beneath the couch cushions and set up the relay.
“Oh, they are clever, aren’t they?”
His umbrella shuddered in agreement.
Pansy must have been watching more closely than he realized, or perhaps this was something Rose had taught her. Either way, she was streaming data not only to the Enclave but to his umbrella as well. And it was glorious. She was glorious. It might contain the last pieces he needed to confirm his hypothesis. If nothing else, he’d have the same information as Botten, and that was no small thing.
Because Botten wanted something here in King’s End, or perhaps wanted to finish something that had started decades ago. What had Max Monroe said? Pansy was the key to everything. The key to this sudden level five hot spot? Perhaps. But perhaps there was more to it than that.
