The Crash of Hennington (31 page)

—I suppose, but it does tend to wear me out.

—I repeat, all the more reason—

—I heard you the first time. He does help one to forget, doesn’t he?

—Rather thoroughly.

—I wonder what we’re helping him forget.

—Oh, really, Cora, do we have to help him forget
anything
? Why can’t you take this at face value? Maybe, and here’s a radical idea, maybe he fancies us. Maybe he so enjoys our times together that he actually looks forward to the next one.

—But all we do is … you know.

—Do you really think that’s all we do?

—Meaning what?

—We talk together, and we sleep together. I mean, actual sleep, not the sex. We eat meals together. We share each other intimately, in more ways than just the obvious physical one.

—But it’s not sharing a life together.

—Is that what you want?

—Is that what
you
want?

—I told you. I’m very fond of Kevin. I very much like having him as a part of our lives.
Our
lives, not my life. And yes, I want what we have to continue with him. I want him to keep coming back to us as long as possible. But that’s future. Right now, I’m enjoying him being here when he’s here. I enjoy the pleasure he gives me. I enjoy the pleasure he gives you. I enjoy the pleasure we give him. He’s a bit of fun that’s turned into a gift, my love. We should cherish it for what it is, not what it might or might not be at some unspecified future date,
especially
with how strange the world seems to be getting.

—Well, I’ll agree with you there. If Kevin can make me forget ‘Mayor Banyon', then I’m all for that.

—But that’s not going to happen.

—It might.

—It might, but Max’ll run.

—He told me no.

—He’ll come around. Luther Pickett’s disappeared. Things have gotten serious. He’ll run.

—I wish I could be as certain.

—Then you’ll just have to trust me, on this matter as well as on Kevin.

—I wish I could speak with Jon again.

—And accomplish what?

—If I’m his aim, then I’m the one who can get through to him.

—Then go see him.

—I thought you were opposed.

—Only on the grounds that it was what he wanted, but if you think you can resolve this by seeing him, I’m all for any means of getting him out of our lives for good. I for one am sick of discussing petty little Jon Noth.

—I love you, Albert.

—Oh! Well, I love you, too, beautiful one, but where did that come from?

—Just … nowhere. ‘Petty’ is a good word that suddenly makes it all feel a little better.

—I’m glad. A little bit in love with Kevin, too? It’s okay if you are.

—A little bit in love with Kevin, too.

—Good. Me, too.

—I’ll make it unanimous.

Kevin walked back towards the bed from the hallway.

—How long have you been listening?

—Long enough to assuage any fears. I’m happy as the proverbial clam when I’m with the two of you. I’m not planning on going anywhere any time soon.

—Glad to hear it.

—I’ll second that.

—Good. Are you rested up? We can sleep if you want,
but if you’re up for it, I’ve got something else I’ve been wanting to show you. Yes? Terrific. First, cross your arms like this, then using both feet …

68. The Prodigal.

He fell asleep and didn’t dream. When he awoke, he was somewhere else.

Maggerty was first aware of wetness under his back. He opened his eyes. The ceiling had turned blue, a light, faraway blue with white –

Clouds.

He was able to sit up, free of restraints. The heavy bandage was off his arm. He felt strange. The sun hung low in the sky, and the air carried the clarity of morning, early morning. It was quiet, extremely so. His mind, he noticed with curiosity, felt as sharp as the waking breeze across his face and outstretched hands. The distant panic was gone. The awful suffocating colours that had swooped in on him so much lately weren’t even in sight. He felt as good as he had in years.
Still.
Yes, he felt that way still.

He reached into his shirt and ran his fingers along his wound. It wasn’t the mess it usually was, but there was still an ache there. He let out a sigh of relief. He wasn’t dead, then. What did this all mean? Had the room with the angel been a dream? It hadn’t felt like one, and now for the first time in a long while, Maggerty felt sure that he could tell the difference. He had a full stomach. His clothes were clean. His wound had been washed. Yet not a dream. Where had that been, then? And where was this now?

He looked around slowly. He recognized the high lea on the upper end of the Arboretum, a flat, green rink of grass
surrounded by trees, perched on a hilltop away from the main paths of the park. The sound of twigs breaking leapt suddenly from the dreamworld of his father’s gravesite into this real one. A low rumbling came from the downhill edge of the lea. If this was all real, which it
must
be, then that meant the herd was either coming into or moving away from this place.

He pulled himself to his feet. His legs were stiff, and he cramped after only a few steps. The snapping, rustling sounds continued but seemed to be getting quieter. The normal panic of losing the herd filled him (or was it a bit less?). He forced himself forward through the pain, hopping on one foot to try to shake out a charley horse. He made it to the edge of the lea and plunged downward into the trees. A rack of ferns tripped him up, covering the knees of his pants in dirt. He stood and took a moment to brush it off before the oddity of the action stopped him. He pushed his way out of the ferns and headed back down the hill. Rounding two large trees, he hopped over a fallen log, and entered a small clearing. And there they were.

They were indeed making their way down through a thickly wooded part of the Arboretum, towards a small reservoir hidden away near the back, an arduous trek for animals so big, through densely packed trees and formidable underbrush. He could remember following them there only a handful of times. Yet here they were heading for it again. Maggerty remembered the briny river, remembered the mud at the edge of the lake, remembered the disappearance of the eagles. He couldn’t quite put it together in his head, but it all must be related somehow.

He caught up with the herd easily. Some of the older animals were having to roam far to the left and right to find easier openings to pass through and soon he was walking among them, slipping through small passages, keeping out of
the paths of the animals. He reached the front of the herd, somehow passing the lead animal without seeing her through the greenery. The sound of rustling and breaking twigs was behind him. He had grown thirsty from the exertion and wanted to get to the reservoir before the animals muddied it with their feet. This was also a new thought, maybe even a new sensibility, and the distraction nearly caused him to stumble into the water as he came through a thick wall of ivy. He walked around the water’s edge to get to the other side before the animals started wading in. He lowered his face and began taking a long, deep drink. He heard a snapping of wood. He looked up briefly as the lead animal broke through the edge of the woods and took her first steps into the cool water.

She froze when she saw him there, catching his eyes once and watching as he continued to drink. She immediately noticed his new smell. Or rather his lack of one. She inhaled deeply. The sick sweetness had disappeared. So had the normal rankness that was his usual accompaniment. Instead, a smell that was almost
clean
drifted lightly from him. She inhaled again to make sure she had scented right. He made no move towards her or any of the other members of the herd as they made their way knee-deep into the pond. Instead, he simply carried on drinking. She could hear the slurping of his mouth on the water, could actually smell the satisfaction flooding through his body.

He had left and returned somehow different. He still made no move as the rest of the herd finally crowded their way in, churning up dirt and debris, turning the water brown with motion. She waited until the thin creature had fully satiated himself, watching him sit back quietly. Slowly, she took her gaze away from him and began to drink. The conflict of the thin creature rose in her head once more, his sudden presence
confusing her feelings as much as his sudden absence had. He
was
different somehow, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t endanger them again. She welcomed his return, especially given the new smells and the calm she could sense in him, but actually seeing him in the flesh, she knew he would have to be watched. Welcome or not, another attack and she wouldn’t turn her head.

Maggerty leaned against a tree near the water’s edge. He felt the sun hot and clear on his face and the coolness of the water still swishing around his feet. He decided that he truly
must
be happy, because he couldn’t imagine feeling any better. It was all so new. There were so many things he would have to get used to, so many new thoughts that seemed to keep popping up. He felt something strange on his face, a weird pull of muscle. He leaned forward to try to catch his reflection in the water.

He was smiling.

69. Want.

Look at him there. Just who does he think he is?

Mistrust was natural, of course. How could someone who had, appeared out of nowhere with an offer too good to be true ever be considered trustworthy for anything? Thomas was no fool, as he had proven on occasion after occasion, particularly in creative ways to those who had considered him such, and he wasn’t taking any chances with Jon Noth, no sir. Jon was being very helpful in the campaign, had footed a surprisingly large amount of cash, and had unexpectedly turned out to be a wizard at building an office from scratch, seemingly pulling volunteers out of thin air. He continually insisted that his only desire was the defeat of Cora Larsson
and that since Thomas was the man to do it, Thomas was the man he would help. This lack of pretense to be Thomas’ friend was reassuring, but still, Thomas eyeballed Jon’s every move. He would have been a fool not to.

Right? Thomas watched him across the room, cajoling a plump female volunteer to inject a little more enthusiasm into her scripted phone pitch. He certainly had, was it
charisma?
The word felt right. He was handsome enough, had certainly kept himself well-groomed for his age. He was the kind of man that young college girls fell for: older, intelligent, experienced, attentive. In unpleasant, unguarded moments, Thomas himself felt flattered by Jon’s attentions, but he usually spat the feeling away and lit up a cigarillo. He had to admit, though, this man had
something.
He watched the plump volunteer’s face positively beam when Jon spoke to her, watched her whole body language change pleasurably when Jon put a hand on her back. When he stepped away from her, she picked up her phone and in under a minute had pulled in a thousand-dollar donation from a cold call. Jon squeezed her shoulder and walked away while she was already on to the next unsuspecting voter.

The search into Jon’s background had proven interesting yet inconclusive. No apparent family. A degree in history from Mansfield, of all places, that he seemed to have disregarded the second he left school. Went overseas towards the Leeward Side to an as yet undetermined land for nearly eight years. Arrived back in the Fifty Shores under the name Aaron Sevillian, an alias he dropped six years later with as little explanation as that which had accompanied it. Founded a shipping business between the Fifty Shores and Chamberlin that thrived and thrived and thrived until he abruptly sold everything nearly fifteen years ago. And for that fifteen years, there was exactly zip to be found on him. He might as well
have sailed off the edge of the world but for his sudden reappearance in Hennington. There were some faint whisperings of a religious conversion that happened, was abandoned, then refound, but nothing more than that. There was also a vague if nonsensical story that he had wandered the Leeward Coast for that time as some kind of vagabond. Thomas was running low on reconnaissance manpower, though, what with the concurrent investigations for Jacki Strell and now Luther. He’d had to pull back while still being without a concrete picture of this stranger who was now exhorting the young girls folding leaflets to fold even faster.

From all available information, it also seemed that Jon Noth was almost immeasurably rich, perhaps even more so than Thomas’ own father, but both men, as with all the wealthiest of the wealthy, had secreted most of it away in differently named corporations and God only knew where else. When Archie finally died, Thomas expected to spend at least a decade tracking down all of the family wealth, even more so now that it looked like Luther had been murdered. Or disappeared. Or whatever the fuck had happened. Which of course was now yet
another
headache to add to the list, along with just where in this Piece-of-Shitville Jacki was hiding. How could one woman, seemingly alone, though Thomas had his doubts about that, keep evading his men? And again, why did he even care? Fuck her. If she had quit Forum – and it seemed she had, all the dealers could only comment on her absence – then she was worthless now anyway. Ex-Forumheads were notoriously members of life’s rubbish heap. And why was he even bothering to think about this now?

He glanced down to the papers in front of him. He had lost his place again. Oh, yes, a speech. Another fucking speech. About agriculture. Who gave a shit about agriculture?

—Hey, Jon?

—Yes?

—Who gives a shit about agriculture? This is a city. All the farmlands are outside city borders.

—Half the members of Hennington Hills give a shit about agriculture. Agriculture is how they pay their substantial membership fees. Don’t be bullheaded, Thomas. You know that.

—Of course I know that, but what I also know is that money from Hennington Hills members is not something I have to be too worried about collecting.

—But you’ll get twice as much if you show an interest.