In spite of the wretchedness of their surroundings and the constant assault on their senses, Chevie and Riley somehow managed to drop into a fitful sleep for a few hours.
They woke simultaneously, feeling both starved and disgusted by the idea of eating food that had been prepared in this place. Especially meat, as Chevie had noticed a suspicious absence of rats. The sulfur-infused air had set their heads throbbing and stripped their throats of moisture.
“We need to buy some water,” said Chevie.
“Not here,” advised Riley. “A delicate gut like yours could not stomach Old Nichol water. It would be out again soon enough, one road or the other.”
Chevie did not ask for details, and she knew that being ill was not something she could risk right now.
“Okay. No water, spoilsport. You go back to sleep and let me think.”
Riley wriggled closer. “I am also thinking. Garrick has given me gifts that he may not expect me to use.”
“If you have an idea, please share.”
“I have the seed of an idea,” said Riley. “It needs . . . watering.”
Chevie may have chuckled or possibly shivered.
They sat without speaking for a while.
“Can I ask a question?” said Riley, long minutes after Chevie was certain he’d fallen asleep.
“Ask away,” said Chevie.
“In advance I beg you not to be insulted, for I do respect you.”
“Oh, I love these questions. Go on.”
Riley considered his phrasing. “Chevie, I heard how those agents from the future spoke to you. Why do you want to stay in the FBI when they don’t seem to want you? And how does someone of your years, and a female to boot, nab herself a position with the bluebottles?”
“That’s more than one question. That’s more or less my life story you’re asking for.”
Riley moved closer in case there was a candle’s worth of heat to be had. “You saw my life in the tunnel, Chevron. I think you could speak of yours. We are close now, are we not?”
“We are close,” agreed Chevie. She had never been closer to anyone. She was bonded to this boy by trauma. “Okay, I’ll tell you about me.”
Riley did not speak, but elbowed her softly in the midriff, which Chevie decided to interpret as go ahead.
“You know I’m an orphan, like you. After my folks were gone, I was put in the foster system, but I was never adopted—too old and too loud, they said. Apparently that made me just perfect for another family, a much bigger one: the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The FBI was putting a program together in conjunction with Homeland Security to stop terrorist cells from getting a grip on the minds of high-school kids. And what better way to guard our schools than with undercover juvenile agents? Sounds crazy, right? Hollywood crazy. But they got funding from a CIA slush fund, if you can believe that, and they picked half a dozen orphans from California for a pilot scheme. We were trained in a place called Quantico and then inserted in a school.” Chevie paused to check that Riley was still awake, half hoping that he would not be. “Any questions so far, kid?”
Riley stirred. “Just one. What is Hollywood crazy?”
A good question. “You like those adventure books, Riley. Well Hollywood crazy is something so wild that it wouldn’t seem out of place in a H. G. Wells story.”
“I see. Carry on.”
Chevie shifted a little on the boards, trying for at least a modicum of comfort. “My target was an Iranian family with four kids in the school. I was supposed to cozy up to the kids, get into their circle, and call the office if they had any terrorist plans. A simple observe-and-report mission. No weapons for teenagers, you understand. So I did what I was told, acted friendly, got close. And I realized that these kids weren’t interested in terrorizing anyone—they just wanted to make it through high school, like the rest of us. If anything, they were the ones being terrorized. We had a group of real sweethearts in our school who couldn’t tell the difference between Saudi, Iraqi, and Iranian, and couldn’t care less. One night a Jeep full of these guys corners my Iranians outside a theater. It got real ugly real fast. One of them pulls a weapon, starts putting shots into the asphalt.”
“I can guess what happened,” said Riley. “You did not take kindly to this behavior.”
Chevie scowled. “No, I did not. I twisted that gun out of his hand, but not before he managed to put a ricochet into his own leg.”
“It appears to me as though you were something of a heroine.”
“Yeah, you would think that, except I got a little carried away and fired a warning shot overhead.”
“That does not sound so serious.”
“No, except now the kid claims that I shot him. And I have gunshot residue on my hand, and some joker with a camera phone captures everything on film, but from a crappy angle that shows me doing all my martial arts but not the kid shooting himself.”
“Ah. Gunshot residue sounds like evidence that Sherlock Holmes would look for.”
“Exactly, or should I say, elementary. So now it’s all over the news how there’s a kid with a gun and a badge in a high school. It gets all the way to the senate. The Agency realizes its teen-agent scheme is at best unconstitutional and at worst illegal, so quickly and quietly retires all the other kids.”
“But Agent Chevron Savano has found her family and does not wish to retire.”
“That’s right. I don’t want to go, and they can’t force me out just yet because there is a committee looking into the whole thing and I’m not supposed to exist. So they ship me off to London, and I think you know the rest.”
Riley did not comment outright, and once again Chevie believed he had fallen asleep until he said, “If we are to deal with Garrick, you will need to hold your temper.”
Chevie felt a weight of responsibility settle on her mind like a vise. This was a big moment for both of them. Riley had never voiced the opinion that it was even possible to be saved from the devil Garrick.
“But,” continued Riley, “this is a plan we should make together. After all, we fight for both our lives. We are brothers in this.”
“Agreed,” said Chevie. “So tell me about this seed we have to water.”
Riley spoke and Chevie realized that this kid was even smarter than she had guessed.
When he had come to a full stop, Chevie commented, “A little harebrained, Riley, and I don’t see how we can do it alone.”
Riley rapped on the floor with the heel of his boot, sending echoes tumbling through the building. “I know a boy who runs a clean operation and will work for coin.”
• • •
When the scheme had been hammered as straight as it could ever be, Riley sent Bob Winkle and his crew to fetch their provisions, and he joined Chevie in the corner of the room where the wall sweated a sickly sweet heat that warmed their fingers when they wormed them between the bricks.
“Winter would be worse,” said Riley. “We would not last a night.”
“No HDTV either,” said Chevie, and began to laugh. After a puzzled moment, Riley joined in, not knowing what HDTV was, but happy to have any excuse for mirth.
When the poisonous air forc
ed them to stop taking such gulps, their laughter petered out and the hubbub from beyond their window once again filled the room.
Chevie held Riley’s hands inside the makeshift vent.
“You know that we’re on borrowed time?” said Riley. “Even though Garrick won’t come in here, he can pay those that will.”
“We move as soon as Bob gets back,” said Chevie. “Don’t worry. It’s a good plan. It will work.”
“It must,” said Riley, squeezing her fingers tightly. “There will be no second chances with Garrick.”
There was a knock on the door.
“I gots a message fer the Injun princess,” said a reedy voice. Chevie opened the door and there stood a consumptive
boy with blood on his gums and the rattle of phlegm in his windpipe. Chevie dragged the boy inside then pinned him to the wall for a quick frisk. Garrick would not be above booby-trapping a child. He would probably consider it funny.
“Don’t rip me froat out, miss. I only done it for the sweety.” The boy had nowhere to conceal anything, and there was nothing concealed. In his hand he held a square of brown packing paper and on it was carefully drawn a window.
The message was clear: Go to the window.
Sure, thought Chevie. Like I’m going to the window. But she did, ducking underneath the sill, cocking one eye at the ripped corner of paper, peering out at the sun rising through the pearly fog, scanning the rooftops.
She could see nothing odd. Nothing, that is, odder than a view of the nineteenth century.
Bowed roofs and chimney stacks. A distant spire.
No, not a distant spire. A man on the rooftops, a red light flashing in his fist.
The strange red light sliced through the fog, a hundred years ahead of its time, painting a dot on the paper plugging the tenement window.
“Down,” called Chevie, diving at both boys, dragging them to the floor, and not a moment too soon. Six shots punctured the paper and knocked fist-sized chunks from the brick wall. Dust clouds swirled in the tubes of light admitted by the bullet holes.