Harmonic (10 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I
don't cross over to Carousel World in the same spot as before, hoping I can sneak up on Garnett.

I approach from the ice rink, deserted and ringed with police tape. I can't see the carousel or the playground from where I stand, but it makes sense that they'd shut down the entire park. Sal's murder was less than a day ago. The crime scene technicians have come and gone. The only reminders that a man died here yesterday are the yellow tape and the blood stain on the concrete. A police car rolls by without stopping.

I head through the woods, my steps cautious, my ears attuned to the sound of the Key World filtering through the dark, spindly branches of the trees. Too late, I realize Garnett will be able to hear me. So much for the element of surprise.

“Addison,” he calls before the carousel is in view. “Glad you could join us. Come on out.”

I step into the pale winter sunlight. “Garnett.”

He's standing on the carousel. Laurel, one eye swollen shut and blood along her hairline, is sitting on the floor at his feet. I lurch toward her, a reflex, but Garnett pulls out a knife—the one that's missing from the cabinet, the one he must have used on Sal—and I freeze, holding up my hands.

“Good girl,” he says, oozing condescension. “I figured you'd come looking. Faster than I expected.”

“Doesn't the killer always return to the scene of the crime?” I ask. The mermaid is just visible from the side, as if she's peeking around the corner, watching us all. “Kind of predictable.”

He shrugs. “Efficient.”

“Let Laurel go, please,” I say, striving for the same friendly tone we used back in the office. “She's not really the one you're after. I am, and I'm here. You can let her go.”

“I don't think I will,” he says. “Unlike you, I do my job.”

With his free hand, he grabs Laurel by the hair, yanking her to her feet. Her wrists are bound, arms circling a support pole. She yelps and then clamps her lips shut, like she won't give him the satisfaction of crying out again. She's terrified—tears run down her cheeks and her hands shake—but she's also pissed.

Pissed-off Laurel is not someone you want to mess with.

“Lattimer didn't mention anything about kidnapping. Or murder.”

“You're a better student than that,” he says. “Any crime committed in service to the Key World is not a crime.”

Not a Free Walker, then. Which leaves psychopath. The knowledge is not reassuring.

“You're not protecting the Key World. You're butchering senior citizens. You're hurting a Walker.”

“We prune the weakest Echoes of the multiverse to protect the Key World,” he says. “I'm doing the same to the Walkers. To make us strong.”

“Hurting Laurel won't make you strong.”

“She's weak. She makes
you
weak.” He pats Laurel's cheek so hard, her head snaps back then. He jumps off the carousel so we're facing each other at eye level. “You're different. You can do all kinds of damage, can't you?”

“I'm a good Walker. I believe in the Consort. In what we're doing. Ask anybody.”

“I don't need to ask,” he says, smirking. “I've watched. I've listened. And you didn't even notice.”

My stomach turns.

“You thought I was poor, sweet, goofy Garnett,” he says, thickening the drawl. “I do believe you felt
sorry
for me, Addison Sullivan.” He gives me a shy smile, eyes wide with the same puppy enthusiasm he's displayed since we met.

Then the mask falls away, his rounded shoulders straighten, and his eyes gleam sharp and terrifying. “I played you. Let you think you were in charge. It was so easy.”

“I never thought I was in charge,” I say, trying to placate him. “We were partners.”

“We were
supposed
to be,” he says. “Until you got yourself another one.”

I recoil. “I never led you on. You knew . . .”

He reaches back to run a hand along Laurel's calf. She jerks away. “I don't care who you fuck, Addie. All I care about is exterminating the Free Walkers. You were supposed to help me with that. You find 'em, I bag 'em. That was the deal.”

“We're supposed to arrest them so they can stand trial. Find the cell, track it back to the leader.”

“Is that what you think?”

“That's what Lattimer
said
. You're ignoring a direct order from a Consort member.”

“Am I?” His eyebrows lift in mock surprise.

“We could have interrogated Sal. We could have found out what he knows about the Free Walkers.”

He scoffs. “Court Salvatore didn't know a damn thing. He was a traitor, but a useless one. Easier to put him down. I told you they were animals.”

“Says the guy who preys on senior citizens.”

He takes a step toward me, knife gleaming dully. I ease back and he smirks. “Such a smart girl,” he says. “Just not as smart as me. I want the information you have on the Free Walkers. All of it. I know you saw them the other night.”

“We were following a lead,” I stammer. “They nearly killed us.”

“And you managed to escape? I don't think so. They
let
you go, because you're one of them. So I'd like those names, please, and the worlds where they're based. Now.”

“I don't have the list here,” I say quickly. “It's at the office. We can go back together and—”

“Stop,” he barks, and I flinch. “Stop trying to pl
ay me. We're not leaving here. At least, you two aren't. I told you, Addie. This is my job, and I am very, very good at my job. You of all people should respect that.”

I didn't bring a weapon. I don't have any weapons, except my brain, which isn't working, and my hands, which have woven the fabric of reality, but are too cold and shaking to be of any use now. I understand now why Del wanted to kill Monty; I understand the temptation of her fingers on the threads, how she would sacrifice herself to stop him. If I thought it would save Laurel, I would do it in a heartbeat. But she's trapped. So I'm trapped. And Garnett knows it.

We are not leaving here.

Laurel isn't crying anymore. She's trembling, from cold and fear and rage. But her eyes meet mine over Garnett's head and she nods once, acknowledging how very badly this is going to end.

“I love you,” I tell her.

Garnett groans. “Really? Now? The declaration of love?”

“I'm so sorry, Laurel. I never meant—”

“Don't apologize,” she orders, gripping the pole.

“But—”

“Don't.” She swings her legs out, her feet catching Garnett in the back of the head. The knife flies to the side as he goes down.

“Run!” she screams.

I snatch up the knife as Garnett clambers to his feet. The blade is heavy and awkward as I try to find a comfortable grip. Cleavers aren't trained to fight, but I'll figure it out.

“Bitch!” he snarls. His head swivels between me and Laurel as she tugs frantically at the rope around her wrists. She's an easy target. I need to draw him away.

“Who's in charge now?” I taunt, and wave the knife.

It works. He spins away from Laurel and comes after me.

Branches snap underfoot as I sprint toward the woods, leaving the trail, weaving between trees and jumping over fallen logs. Behind me, Garnett draws closer with every second.

I tighten my grip on the knife—I'm
going to have to stand and fight—but he tackles me before I can turn. My shoulder slams into the ground and the knife disappears, lost in a pile of underbrush.

He flips me over and I fight like I've never fought in my life—kicking and screaming and clawing like a feral creature. I rake my nails down his face, drawing blood, and the satisfaction is primal.

He roars and clouts me along the side of my head. Stars explode behind my eyelids, the world turning inside out.

His hands come around my windpipe, pressing, pressing, and the stars become black dots, swelling and blotting out the sunlight.

My hands scrabble in the dead leaves, trying to find purchase.

I can't breathe. I can't see. I can't hear anything except my slowing pulse.

Time slows.

My fingers curve around something rough. A branch.

If I die, he can get to Laurel. There won't be anyone to stop him.

I swing the branch, as hard as I can.

The impact travels down my arm, and the pressure at my throat eases. I suck down air and swing again, and he goes tumbling, shouting something foul.

I scramble up. His temple is bleeding and so is his mouth.

“You bitch,” he snarls.

“Absolutely,” I say, circling around so I'm closer to the trail, cutting off his route to Laurel. “Come near me again and I will knock your head off.”

“You think a stick is going to keep you safe?” He spits blood.

“It's done a pretty good job so far.”

“I will kill you. And your girlfriend. Your friend Sal didn't feel anything, but you two? I'll make it hurt.”

“Not if I kill you first.” I take a swing and he jumps back, too slow. The branch catches him in the shoulder and he staggers but steadies himself quickly.

“The thing about killing is that you have to know death. You have to let it touch you, so it can guide your hand. You have to be willing to die.” He laughs, the sound eerie and high-pitched among the bare trees and shifting light. “Will you lay down your life for your cause?”

“For Laurel,” I say. “But that's not how this is going to go.”

“I think we'll all go,” he says softly, and the world trembles.

His fingers twitch, his wrists flex. He's gathered the strings of this Echo in both hands. If he pulls too hard, they'll snap.

“You're going to cleave this place?”

“Have to protect the Key World,” he says. Spittle gathers at the corners of his mouth. “Root out the weakness.”

“You'll cleave yourself, too,” I say, hearing the strain in the pitch as it climbs. Is there time to get back to Laurel? To find a way out? If he does enough damage to the strings, maybe not. “You don't want to do this.”

“Three Free Walkers in one Echo? Can't think of a better reason. It's a good kill.”

“Garnett,” I beg. “Wait. Think. Let's talk about this.”

“No more thinking,” he says. “No more talking.”

A branch snaps somewhere behind me, and I hear a second, louder crack.

A dark circle appears in the center of Garnett's forehead.

He falls backward, releasing the strings.

“No more talking,” says a voice over my shoulder.

I whirl, branch at the ready.

“Not for him, anyway.” The girl in the hoodie stands before me, gun in her hand. “Promise not to hit me and I promise not to shoot.”

I drop the stick. In the distance, Laurel is screaming my name, and I race for her. Hoodie girl can wait.

Laurel meets me at the edge of the woods—she's managed to free herself from the pole, but her wrists are rubbed raw and bleeding. I wrap my arms around her gingerly.

“You're hurt,” she says, hiccupping.

“I'm fine. Your hands . . .”

“Weak my ass,” she mutters. “What—”

She breaks off, staring over my shoulder. Hoodie girl, no gun in sight. “You?”

“Me,” the girl says.

“Do you have a name?” Laurel asks.

“Prescott,” she says after a moment. “I'd rather you not spread that around. Are you okay?”

I nod, sliding my arm around Laurel's waist, not sure who's supporting whom. “Thanks.”

She flushes, but jerks her chin in acknowledgment.

“You weren't trying to cleave us the other night, were you?” Laurel asks.

“There were only a few safe exit pivots left,” Prescott replies. “If you picked the wrong one, you would have been trapped.”

“He killed Sal,” I tell her. “Court Salvatore.”

Sorrow crosses her face. “I know. We've always known where Court was, but he wanted to be left alone. We honored that. Maybe if we hadn't, we could have kept him safe.”

“How'd you know to come here today?”

“We knew Garnett was a problem. We've been watching him, the same as he's been watching you.”

“Thank you,” Laurel says again. Prescott nods and turns toward the woods.

“That's it?” I say. “You save our lives and disappear?”

“Pretty much,” she says with a wry grin. “Worlds to save. People to see.”

She lifts a hand in farewell and starts off.

Laurel nudges me. “I knew they weren't killers.”

Prescott pauses, then looks over her shoulder at us. Her eyes are ringed with exhaustion, her skin drawn too tightly over blade-like bone.

“We can be.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

L
aurel's injuries are worse than mine, so I drive us directly to CCM.

“I thought he was going to kill you,” she says, fingers laced tightly with mine.

“He didn't.” But it's hard to get the words past the memory of his hands around my throat.

“Crazy bastard,” she whispers. “Literally crazy.”

He was. But I can't help wondering.

You're ignoring a direct order from a Consort member.

Am I?

CCM has a full complement of Enforcement Walkers. Any one of them could have protected me. Lattimer brought Garnett in specifically for this job. Lattimer's pet, the same as me—but with an entirely different set of tricks.

I call ahead, and a medical team meets us in the parking garage, whisking us directly to the clinic on the third floor.

While the medics bandage Laurel's wrists and check me for a concussion, Lattimer appears.

The heart monitor attached to my finger picks up as soon as I spot him. The medic glances up. “Doesn't look like a concussion. She'll have a nasty headache, some trouble swallowing for the next few days. No lasting damage.”

“I'm right here,” I point out.

“Thank you,” Lattimer says gravely. “That will do for now.”

The medic flees and Lattimer takes his place. “Tell me.”

It's a command, not a question.

“Garnett,” I say. “I found a Free Walker; Garnett killed him before I could notify anyone, then decided Laurel and I were Free Walkers too.”

“Explain why he would have drawn such a conclusion.”

I pause, trying to figure out how much I can safely say. All of it, really. The worst thing I've done is loop in Laurel without permission. It's my motives that are suspect, not my actions.

“He felt like I wasn't treating him as a partner. I'd asked Laurel for help with some old records, and he thought I was hiding things.”

Lattimer's eyebrows lift, a wordless question. “I didn't tell him about the Free Walker because he was acting strangely. I thought Garnett might be a Free Walker spy, so I was going to report it directly to you—but he kidnapped Laurel before I could say anything.”

Lattimer considers this for a long, excruciating moment. Finally, he says, “Garnett clearly had some sort of paranoid delusion. A fixation on you, perhaps, and when you and Miss Pruitt resumed your . . . relationship, his jealousy caused him to snap.”

I don't care who you fuck, Addie.

Garnett wasn't fixated on me. He was fixated on Free Walkers.

Lattimer doesn't wait for me to respond. “You've had a shock, Addison, but you've made excellent progress. It's lamentable that we can't interrogate this Free Walker, but we can still look into his connections. Tell me his name, and we'll get started immediately.”

The damage is done. Sal can't spill any secrets; Prescott made it clear he'd been out of the loop for years.

“Court,” I rasp. “Court Salvatore.”

Lattimer draws back, mouths the name. “That man died nearly two decades ago.”

“He faked his own death. Garnett slit his throat last night.”

My hand comes up to touch the tender places on my neck.

Lattimer's jaw works, but I can't tell if it stems from being denied his quarry, or the knowledge that Sal outsmarted him for so long. Both, probably.

“Well. We'll need to look into it, of course. After you're feeling better.”

The idea of continuing on this project makes me ill. I want to go back to my old life.

Actually, I don't. Not anymore.

I want a better life. One with Laurel in it.

“Take tomorrow to rest,” Lattimer says. “We'll expect a full report the following morning.”

“Yes sir,” I say, but even as he leaves, I'm figuring out what version of this story I'll tell them. According to Del, lying takes practice.

It looks like I'll get my chance.