Page 152 of The Pansy Paradox
“Jesus, no. We know, more or less, that it’s in the housing development, but again, after they broke ground, it may have rerouted itself. We can’t deploy if we don’t know exactly where it is. That’s SOP.”
Yes, it would be a shame if the ground opened up and swallowed an entire task force. Career-limiting move, indeed.
“So what you’re saying,” Jack adds, “is that Pansy’s been patrolling all these years and could have vanished.”
“That’s on Rose and Darnelle senior, not the Enclave.”
Yes, of course, the Enclave is always blameless in these situations.
Both Jack and Mort fall silent. In the quiet, morning filters through the screen door: someone starting up a lawnmower, the wet slap of a sprinkler, the catchy refrain of a pop song from a car radio. King’s End going about its day, blissfully ignorant.
“Can you do this for me?” Mort stares at Jack, eyes alight with more than this request. Do you believe me? Are you still mine? Can’t we just get through this?
Jack presses his lips together in thought. He looks like a man whose life’s been cleaved in half, a before and after from here on out. After a long moment, he picks up his umbrella. Without a word, he heads for the door.
“Will you?” Mort calls after him.
Jack pauses at the threshold but doesn’t turn around. “I’m going to go look for Pansy, assuming the housing development hasn’t swallowed her up, that is. If I happen across your epicenter, maybe I’ll report it. Or maybe I’ll just keep on walking.”
That’s when Mort’s phone rings. He knows better than to not pick up. So, instead of chasing after Jack, and his heart, Mort answers before the second ring.
Sonorous, terse words leak from around Mort’s ear. He cringes, moves to the door, and peers through the screen, but Jack is already a shadowy figure on the gravel road that leads to the housing development.
“Everything’s fine,” Mort says when there’s a pause in the recriminations.
To hear him, you might believe everything is fine. Even after watching his world crumble around him, Ophelia marvels at the confidence in his voice. He could fool her.
He might even fool Botten.
“We were outfitting Agent Ling, and he just left to conduct a survey.”
Ah, yes, the best lies do run parallel, don’t they?
Mort heads for the kitchen, phone to his ear. It’s a short call, and he deletes the earlier voicemail without listening to it. He fishes his mug from the sink, runs a finger over the chip in its rim, and pours himself a fresh cup.
The kitchen window captures Mort’s attention, but Ophelia doubts he’s contemplating the view.
“He’ll be back.” The words are little more than a whispered prayer.
And if the best lies run parallel, then Ophelia suspects the worst lies are the ones we tell ourselves.
Chapter 65
Henry
This truly was the most perfect kitchen. And that was the problem. Every kitchen had its quirks, every house its creaks and groans, every window a less than stellar view.
Every cook, every field agent, every man, his foibles.
When had he known it was all a dream? Before Pansy approached, certainly. Her eyes were full of regret, her fingers on his sleeve light and healing, the measured touch she used to mend fissures. Before she played the videos. Although those chipped away at the seduction and sent fault lines through the fantasy.
In the end, though, it wasn’t a shattering. His heart didn’t break. No, it was more of a shriveling, a contraction until the dream faded, and nothing was left but a few props and vast empty rooms.
And, of course, the sensation of someone taking a spoon and hollowing out his chest.
But then Pansy smiled at him, her expression nothing but relief, her hair mussed from sleep and perhaps worry. She urged him to sit on the couch and then pressed a thermos of tea into his hands, warmed from the canned heat he kept in his field pack.
“Drink. It will help.”
