Harmonic (3 page)

C
HAPTER FIVE

T
he next morning, Del manages to pull off another sick day.

“I have a cough,” she rasps, when I go upstairs to yell at her.

I open her nightstand. “You have a bottle of cinnamon and a teaspoon. You could collapse a lung, you know.”

“Then I should stay home and take it easy.” She does cough, pitifully, but it serves her right.

“I can't believe Mom and Dad buy this.”

She sips at the tea my dad brought up earlier. “Guilty conscience and a busy day,” she says with a hint of the old Del. “Works every time.”

I shake my head and leave her to her deception. In a way, it's progress.

At CCM, I head straight to my new office.

There's a guy at the desk opposite mine. Chair tilted back, well-worn combat boots propped on the surface, playing some sort of game on his phone.

“Can I help you?” I ask, my voice frosty.

He scrambles up and gives me a wave. “Hey there, partner.”

The guy is approximately my age and several inches shorter. He's wearing cargo pants and a loose black T-shirt, and his overeager grin gives the impression of a very affable stamp collector. “You're my partner?”

He looks like he's spent most of his time behind a desk, not working Enforcement. His shoulders are rounded and, if I'm being honest, he has one of those forgettable faces—if I walked into a room of sandy-haired, weak-chinned guys, I wouldn't be able to pick him out.

“Yep. And you're Addison Sullivan. Garnett Thompson,” he adds with a slight drawl. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Where's Lattimer?” I ask.

“In a meeting,” Garnett says patiently. “Figured we didn't need to be so formal.”

He's right, I suppose. “When did you get here?” I ask.

“Couple of hours ago. I've been busy getting the lay of the land.”

“You're Enforcement?” Most of their apprentices are checking IDs or running compliance checks on underage Walkers. His name is unfamiliar, too. “You're not from around here.”

“Nope.” He tries the handle of the cabinet, but it's locked. “Atlanta.”

Now I'm really curious. If the Free Walkers are dangerous, why would they put an apprentice in charge of my safety? If the Free Walkers are local, why give me a partner who doesn't know the area?
They don't trust you,
Del had warned me. “The Consort recruited you for this project?”

He opens his own drawer and rummages around, his face lighting up when he finds a key. “People call you Addie, right?”

I nod.

“Cool. People call me Garnett,” he says with another smile, so enthusiastic I can't help but smile back. “I hear they offered you a First Chair. That's pretty sweet.”

None of this quite fits. How much protection can he possibly be? “What did they promise you?”

He fits the key in the storage cabinet's lock, twists, and the doors swing open.

I gape.

Inside are rows of weapons—knives in leather sheaths, stun guns, nightsticks, grenades, and assorted body armor. A sweaty rush of nausea envelopes me, but Garnett flashes me the grin of a child let loose in a candy store. “Free rein.”

I fumble for the chair and collapse into it, taking slow, careful breaths. Garnett is too busy inspecting his cabinet of death to notice, and by the time he's done, I've regained my composure, though it feels brittle as an eggshell.

“Quite an arsenal,” I say as he relocks the cabinet and drops the key into his pocket.

“I like to be prepared,” he says.

“For Armageddon?” I manage.

He wags his finger at me. “To prevent Armageddon.”

“A good Walker does more with less.” I wince. “Sorry. My grandfather used to say that.”

“Montrose, right? The one in the oubliette? You probably shouldn't take advice from Free Walkers.”

“You've been checking up on me.”

He drops into his chair and tilts it back. “Sure. I know all about you.”

I tip my head to the side, faux-sweet. “Really? Because Lattimer didn't tell me anything about you.”

“Every Walker has a file. I'm doing my homework, like you.” His tone hardens ever so slightly. “No need to get your back up over it.”

Rather than respond, I change the subject. “We should get started. Did Lattimer give you any instructions?”

He pauses. “I'm supposed to help you find the Free Walkers. Keep you safe, you know? They're dangerous,” he adds. “Like animals.”

“And then you arrest them, right? So they can stand trial.”

“I'll do my best,” he says. “Any leads yet?”

I gesture to my computer. “Lattimer sent me the files on every Free Walker the Consort has apprehended in the past twenty years.”

“Including your grandfather?”

“Including Montrose Armstrong, yes.” I smooth a wisp of hair from my face and continue. “Based on what I've read, the network of Free Walkers in this area was extensive twenty years ago. They made substantial inroads against the Consort, but eventually the tide turned and their network was disrupted. Many of the Free Walkers were captured. Some died and some escaped, but for the most part, the Consort was successful in neutralizing the threat.”

I thought for a moment about Rose, lost in the Echoes, and Simon's father, killed by the Consort.

“But now they're back,” Garnett says. “That's what the anomaly was—a calling card.”

“The anomaly was an isolated event,” I reply too quickly. “I mean, other recent Free Walker events have some commonalities. That's what I'm interested in. The patterns.”

“If you say so,” he says, doubt clear in his voice.

I hurry on. “According to the reports, the Free Walkers have moved to a cell-based network. They work in small groups, unknown to each other, compartmentalizing information and plans. That way, if one person is captured, they can contain the damage.”

“So we find a cell. Sounds good.”

I doodle on a piece of paper, drawing plump amoebas connected by dotted lines. “I don't know how much it will help us. They don't communicate with one another. We don't even know how many other cells exist in this area. It might be the only one, it might be one of a hundred.”

Garnett leans forward, his face lighting up. “They have to talk, right? If not to one another, then to the brain.”

“The brain?”

“Somebody has to be giving orders. Once we find the head, the cells will be easy pickings.”

It's a decent plan, actually. I feel a surge of irritation that I hadn't been the one to think of it. “We can monitor a cell until we figure out their communication network.”

He shakes his head. “Surveillance takes too long. We bring them in, convince them to talk.”

I'm not sure how successful he'll be. Everything I know about Free Walkers suggests they don't give up their secrets so easily. But all I say is, “Okay. How do we find them?”

He shrugs. “No idea. Ask, I suppose.”

I smack my forehead. “Of course! I will simply go down to the lobby and
ask
if someone can please point me in the direction of the nearest Free Walker cell. Then I'll
ask
where they get their orders. That should go beautifully, yes. I can't imagine why I didn't think of it first.”

“Actually,” he says, mild as cream, “I meant you could ask your grandfather. It's not like he's going anywhere.”

CH
APTER SIX

I
'm sorry,” Lattimer says when we ask to interview Monty. “He's refusing visitors. He is, in fact, refusing to speak to anyone.”

“He might respond to me.” I can't believe I'm pleading for a chance to see someone I hate so much. “I'm family.”

Lattimer considers my words, running a finger over a blown-glass paperweight. Inside is a small tree, green branches unfurling from a thick brown trunk.

“Delancey's the only family member he'll agree to see.”

The words sting. I know Del's his favorite, but it's never put me at a disadvantage before. Being Monty's second-best girl is one thing, but second-best Walker—in any situation—is entirely different. “He won't get her. Nothing in the world will convince Del to visit him.”

Lattimer hums; impossible to say if he agrees. “You'll have to pursue other avenues. I would recommend focusing on the present, not the past.”

“Sir?”

“Montrose couldn't have created the anomaly on his own. Focus on finding the Free Walkers who helped him, not ancient history.” He waves a hand at the bound report I'm carrying. “Those old files were meant to provide background, nothing more. I assumed you were capable of handling the assignment. I hope my trust wasn't misplaced.”

I've been reading the old reports because I'm desperate for information on the Free Walkers, no matter how outdated it is. None of the things Monty has told the Consort since his capture are real. He has no insight into the current crop of Free Walkers, and I haven't found their pattern yet. But I can't let Lattimer know that, so I channel Del and go on the offensive.

“Somebody missed something,” I say. “You questioned Monty seventeen years ago and let him go, and he kept working right under your nose. You've seen him; he can barely remember his own name some days. Do you really think he's gone seventeen years without making a mistake? Without leaving a clue? You brought me in because I know Monty, and what I know is, somebody missed something. I'm going to find it.”

By the time I'm done speaking, my cheeks are hot and my breath is short. Garnett is staring at me with a strange half-smile and a new respect.

Lattimer studies me for a long moment. “Very well. I'll trust your approach will bear fruit. For now.”

“You're kind of a badass,” Garnett says, once we're back in our office with the door closed.

I laugh, but the confrontation has left me exhausted. “Hardly. And without Monty's help, I don't know where to start.”

“You were bluffing?”

“Not exactly. I'll figure it out eventually. It's just a lot of data to sort through. Two decades' worth.”

He clears his throat. “Can I make a suggestion?”

“By all means.”

“People have been over those reports plenty. They've been run through computers more powerful than NASA's. Instead of crunching numbers, look at the people. Known associates and such.”

“I've lived with Monty since I was four,” I say. “He doesn't have known associates.”

“He used to,” Garnett says. “He was a First Chair, wasn't he? Who was on his team?”

“My dad,” I say. “And I promise you, my father is
not
a Free Walker.”

“He's clean,” Garnett agrees. My hands turn cold at the casual, confident way he says it. He's been researching my whole family.

But he, like the Consort, is focused on the present. He doesn't know that before my dad took a First Chair in New York City, he was Monty's Second Chair. It's how my parents met. He doesn't know Eliot's dad was their Third Chair, which is how Del and Eliot grew up best friends. Garnett knows the broad strokes of what happened seventeen years ago, but not the details, and that's for the best.

“Who was on Monty's team when they arrested him the first time? We can track them down.”

I recall the file perfectly. “Richmond Martinez and Court Salvatore. Richmond was captured and died in custody. Court killed himself before he could be caught.”

“A dead end. Literally.” He chuckles. He falls silent when I don't chime in. “I'm not saying you're wrong. But Lattimer's worried about what the Free Walkers are up to
now
. Let's give the man what he wants and figure out how your grandpa was meeting with them. What do you know so far?”

“Not much. The Free Walkers went so far underground, they've only started popping up again in the past few years.”

“Where?”

“Random worlds,” I say. “Every so often, a cleaving team runs across a group. The Free Walkers chase the Cleavers off before they can get to work, or the Cleavers interrupt a bunch of them messing around with an Echo's strings.”

I stare at the notes I've made, page after page of theories that don't hold up. “There's no pattern, so we can't predict where they'll be. The Cleavers report it right away, but by the time Enforcement arrives, the Free Walkers are gone.”

Garnett nods. “And there's no connection?”

“Nothing I can see. Different frequencies, different areas, different times of day, different teams. The teams go in to perform the cleavings, and . . . wait.”

It's so obvious, I can't believe I missed it. I was searching for something as conniving and twisted as Monty, but the answer is perfectly straightforward.

“The Free Walkers only show up in Echoes scheduled for a cleaving.
That's
the connection.”

“How did the Consort miss that?” Garnett demands.

“I doubt they did. But it's not enough of a lead. The sightings are such a small percentage of cleavings, they can't act.” I tap the paper. “There has to be another connection between these worlds. Let's talk to the teams again.”

Garnett stands and pulls on his coat. “They've given their statements. I want to look at the cut sites.”

“The Echoes are cleaved,” I say. “There's nothing to see.”

“I'll find something,” he says grimly. He unlocks the cabinet and starts loading weapons into his backpack. It reminds me of Del, stuffing her bag until it strains at the seams—but I suspect her tools and Garnett's differ greatly.

Wordlessly, I grab my coat. We don't speak again until we're in the parking garage.

“We can take my car,” he says, gesturing to a black SUV with tinted windows and Georgia plates. It's not what I would have pictured for him, but I climb in.

“Where to?” he asks.

I punch the coordinates into the GPS. It's always easier to navigate to your location in the Key World, then use a nearby pivot to find your Echo. With as much Walking as I suspect we'll do today, it makes sense to minimize our exposure to frequency poisoning.

“It's a gas station about thirty miles north of the city,” I say and settle in. “What are you looking for?”

“A trail,” he says.

Any signal left behind by the Free Walkers has faded away by now, but the dark, intent look on his face keeps me from arguing. I doubt we'll find anything at the cut site, but I don't have any other clues, so I'll take what I can get.

Traffic is light as we speed out of the city. Garnett's mulling something over. Eventually he clears his throat. “So. You're . . .”

I sigh, knowing from his intonation that he's reluctant to say the word. Gay. Like it's a secret, a curse, a scandal, a shame. I heard it plenty in high school, and when I was just starting out with the Walkers. Most of the time, we forget we're as human as Originals—but these moments are a very effective reminder.

I don't respond. If he's so curious, he can ask. Garnett fiddles with the radio, the heater, the cruise control, the mirrors. Finally he blurts, “You're a lesbian.”

It's a statement, not a question. He did his research on my whole family, including me. I feel a spurt of irritation. Nobody asks about Del's sexual orientation. They assume she's straight—they assume
everyone
is straight unless they're told otherwise. In their minds, Del is the default setting; I'm the anomaly—and I know exactly how Walkers feel about anomalies.

“Is that a problem?” I ask.

“No! I just . . . there aren't a lot of you.”

Better and better. I'm exotic, like some sort of zoo specimen. “How would you know? Do you ask every Walker you meet which way they lean?”

The saccharine in my words must be too much, because the look he sends me nearly ices over the windshield. “Not unless they're my partner. I like to know who I'm dealing with.”

“I'm ranked first in my cohort. My team captured Montrose Armstrong and stopped the anomaly. Lattimer handpicked me for this project, and when I succeed, I'll be the youngest First Chair in Consort history.
That's
who you're dealing with.”

He doesn't say anything for a long moment. Then, “Got it.”

I fold my arms and stare out the window.

“Are you seeing anyone?” Before I can snap at him, he holds up a hand. “It's what I'd ask any other partner.”

“You investigated me. Don't you know?”

He checks his mirrors. “Might have missed something,” he says. “You're less predictable than I expected—standing up to Lattimer, running down a hunch. Figured I should ask, to be thorough.”

He's so calm and reasonable, my anger deflates. If we're going to be a team, I might as well make an effort to get along.

“I'm not seeing anyone.” This is absolutely true. I'm not seeing Laurel. I saw her, and it was breathtaking and disastrous, and unlike my little sister, I learn from my mistakes. I push away memories of sleepy-eyed, soft-skinned Laurel and feign interest. “What about you?”

He shakes his head. “No time. Too hard, you know? I move around a lot.”

“You're not based in Georgia?” I'd assumed his home base was the Atlanta substation.

“I go where I'm sent,” he says simply. “The job comes first.”

For the first time, I think maybe Garnett and I will get along just fine.

We arrive at the gas station. Garnett parks the SUV as I start tracking the pivot on my phone.

“Map?” he asks, watching me.

“Kind of. A friend designed it.” Eliot's map software—real-time pivot tracking—is so far beyond the standard Consort equipment, it's the only thing I use now. Even my parents are impressed; my mom estimates within a year, every Walker will have a Consort-approved version on their phone. “This is the spot.”

I lead us through a pivot next to the gas pump. The air shifts around us, a dense mist obscuring my vision. I follow the frequency, Garnett on my heels. My sight returns and the air lightens as we emerge on the other side. The gas station has been replaced by a shoe store.

“The cut site should be nearby,” I say, consulting the report.

“It won't show up on your doohickey?” He points to the phone.

“The software only tracks live pivots,” I say. “Cut sites don't give off a frequency after the cleaving is complete—so I
shouldn't
see anything. If I do, something's wrong.” He uses his GPS to lead us to the exact location of the cut site. When I hold my phone up, the screen is black as a starless sky.

“This is where they cleaved,” I say. “See? No reading.”

I tip my head to the side, trying to locate the cut site. It's a faint line, a change in the quality of the light, as if the pale winter sun has turned brittle. When I brush my hand over it, the sensation is lighter than spider silk. “You sound unhappy,” he says.

“Not exactly.” I reach deeper into the Echo, feeling along the seam. The surrounding fabric vibrates in harmony with the rest of this frequency, but the silent join feels bumpy, as if someone knotted the strings instead of weaving them. It's a rough job, even for an emergency cleaving—but it doesn't matter now. The damaged Echo is gone, and this one is safe—it won't unravel back to the Key World. “How about you? Hear anything?” I ask.

Walkers track by sound, not sight. He shakes his head. “Let's go to the next one.”

We cross back, drive to the next location, and pivot to the cut site. Everything repeats: the black screen, the bumpy seam—and the sense that I'm missing something. Garnett must feel it too. He holds unnaturally still, like he's listening with his whole body. But there's nothing to be heard beyond the pitch of the Echo, the buzz of nearby pivots, and our own Key World signals.

“You keep checking the cuts,” he says after the fourth stop. It's cold, and the sky is inching toward dusk, and the tips of my fingers are growing numb. “What are you looking for?”

“A change,” I murmur. From the first day of training, we're taught variation is dangerous. The Key World is perfectly in tune. It's change that creates Echoes: A fluctuation in their frequency makes them unstable; continuity is safe. Changes can throw an entire world into flux, and so we're taught to control them, unravel them, erase them completely.

Something about these cleavings doesn't fit. I can't articulate it, couldn't even if my teeth stopped chattering. But Garnett, arms folded and feet stomping against the cold, is waiting for an answer. “A few more,” I say, and head back to the SUV.

We strike gold at the next site. My screen lights up like a pulsar, but I don't need to see the display—I can hear the pivot, the one that shouldn't exist. Garnett scowls at the rift, like its existence is a personal affront.

“Let's cross,” I say on impulse. Unplanned Walks are dangerous, but curiosity trumps caution for once in my life. Del would be thrilled. I head for the pivot but Garnett catches my arm, his grip surprisingly strong.

“Me first.” Without waiting for my response, he steps through the pivot.

I don't know what's triggered his transformation, but I don't like it. Seething, I follow him through and emerge outside a convenience store, the air so thick with pivots it's like watching a snowstorm, the way the shapes of everything are rounded off and misty.