Page 78 of The Pansy Paradox
“Adele?”
The connection was scratchy. Pansy walked backward, away from the entrance and that menacing shadow cast by the signage. Henry followed, and once the sun was warming his head, touching his cheeks, he could finally pull in a full breath.
What the hell had just happened? He shook his head to clear the cobwebs and dreams of saving the world. He’d interrogate himself later. But now?
Now, he had a few questions for the woman on the other end of the phone.
“I’m working the swing shift,” Adele was saying, the reception through the speaker still dodgy. “I just now got your message, but I can’t?—”
“You don’t have to,” Henry said and inched them even farther into the midday sun. The static faded from the line as both he and Pansy stepped across some invisible border. “I know there’s an issue with speaking about that day, but what if we tried a process of elimination?” From his cargo pocket, he pulled the photograph of everyone gathered around the fire pit.
“I’ll say a name,” he added, “and you can tell me yes or no.”
On the other end, Adele pulled in a shaky breath. “I’ll try.”
“Arthur Connolly?”
“No.”
The word was firm, nonnegotiable. Henry felt himself sag with relief. Bad enough that the image of Ophelia’s father doing body shots was burned into his retina. There was a small but definite comfort in the fact that the chair of the High Council was not that third agent.
“Misha Pulchenko?”
“No.”
“Patrice Farmington?” he asked, although, from what they’d gleaned, the agent was most likely a man.
“No.”
“Portia Worthington-Wells?
“No.”
“Mortimer Connolly, Sr.?”
“No.”
“Reginald Botten.”
The silence on the other end stretched and stretched. At last, Adele whispered, “I can’t say.” Her voice was tight as if the words hurt.
Interesting. “All right. How about Rajeev Patel?”
“No.”
Multiple times, he ran through the list, repeated names, mixed them up. He named every agent in that photo, even those he doubted were involved, like Anya Pulchenko, Ashwin Patel, and George Ling. Then, when Adele’s tone had calmed and her replies were automatic, he’d say:
“Reginald Botten.”
Each pause was filled with the dread that surrounded the silo. It had the feel of that gaping maw in the fence. Adele’s breathing would pick up, distinct through the phone’s speaker. At last, as if the words cost her dearly, she’d utter:
“I can’t say.”
Henry glanced at Pansy, who stood stock-still and wide-eyed. If this was true? If Reginald Botten were the third agent? Henry supposed it would be one thing to go against the chair of the High Council, but Botten?
Reginald Botten headed up the Academy. He was the nominal director of R&D. He was also the undisputed—if unacknowledged—power behind the throne, the Enclave’s kingmaker.
“It’s okay.” Henry kept his voice soft and gentle. He had enough to go on, and it was time to stop this. “You don’t have to say.”
