Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(78)

“True.”

“Maybe doesn’t feel it, though.”

“No.”

“He wants his human face painted back on. So he can still pretend.”





Chapter 62

Words in the Walls




The twelfth floor was a different matter. I didn’t really care about the twelfth floor. but I took McAvoy along, just to get him on his own a while.

I could feel the god. The air was thick with it. The atmosphere would seem to part before me, flow, and close behind. There were mild hallucinations, a sense of being watched—twice in the few minutes after stepping from the stairwell, I looked round, certain there was someone else there. Of course, there wasn’t. But that didn’t shake the feeling, or make it any easier, being there.

To McAvoy, I said, “You scared?”

He didn’t answer right away. I was sorry that I’d got annoyed with him before; not because he didn’t deserve it, but because I wanted information. It would have just been so much easier to have him trust me.

Too late now, perhaps.

He said, “Why should I be?”

“Dunno. ’Cause you look it?”

I spread the cables out. I wasn’t bothered with a flask here. All I wanted was a block, cutting off an exit route.

I told him, “I’m scared.” I reeled out a dozen yards of wiring. I said, “I’m scared of this thing upstairs. And I’m scared of Ballington because he’s fucking crazy, and he’s got more power right now than any crazy person ought to have. And you know why he’s got it, too, don’t you?”

I couldn’t make him trust me. But maybe I could make him talk, if I kept on.

He was facing the wall, running his fingers back and forth over the wallpaper, like there was something special in it, something that took all his concentration.

“Somebody,” I said, “sold him a god. But they didn’t shield it properly. So how did that happen?”

“I did what I was asked,” he said.

“Not very well.”

There was a pause. He shrugged one shoulder.

He was still watching at the wall.

“I’ve been to Ballington’s place.” I laid cable round the room, not really thinking much about positioning. “Nice, eh?” He wouldn’t answer. “Cameras everywhere, though. Worse than here. That’s how we got you. Anyway—that whole house—the lower floors are swarming with activity. All geared round old man Ballington. I’d say he’s got a piece of god lodged in him right this minute. And why? ’Cause someone couldn’t do their fucking job.”

I had expected arrogance. Evasion. I’d expected him to blame somebody else, deny the whole thing, perhaps.

That wasn’t what I got.

He said, “You want me to feel guilty.”

It was the voice of a resentful child.

“Feel as guilty as you want,” I said.

“That’s all you people do. Denigrate, put down—”

I cut him short.

“Look. Not only do I not care how you feel, you are now so totally irrelevant to this whole thing, it doesn’t even matter what you think, do or say. You understand? So unless you’ve something helpful to contribute, you might as well shut up. OK?”

It took a minute. I could see the muscles in his face twitching and shifting.

He sniffed. He sniffed again, and the sniff became a little, sneering laugh.

Arrogance. We’d got to it at last.

I said, “Just tell me something, will you? ’Cause I’m puzzled, all right?” I waved my hand across him, full length. “What exactly are you meant to be? I mean, singer? Guitarist? Something like that?”

He didn’t answer.

“You look—oh, I’d say, mid-period Stones, maybe. Except, well. Talentless.”

“You don’t know anything.”

“I know incompetence.” I dropped the cables, stood up straight. I looked him in the eye. “I know amateur. I know bad work.”

His mouth opened. I didn’t give him chance to speak.

“You walk out on the street here, you can see it. Spilling over everywhere. You did containment? Honestly? It’s like a fucking sieve.”

His fingers traced the patterns on the wall.

“Still—what do I know? You’re the one dressed like a rock star. Making your money, living large. That the plan? Well,” I said, “if you’re going to fail, fail big, that’s what I always say.”

“You’ve no idea.”

“No. Listen.” I was angry now. I’d planned on staying calm, but it got me anyway. “You’re the one with no idea. And let me tell you: the way things are right now, I am the only person here who might, just possibly, be able to get you out. To get you home. You understand?”

He didn’t answer. I said, “Something in the wallpaper?”

Silence. And then, “Words.”

He moved his fingers back and forth across the wall.

“Like braille?” I said.

He shook his head.

“My words,” he whispered. “Written here.”

But there was nothing written there, nothing at all.

“You’ve lost,” he told me. “All of you. All you people. Whatever you do, you’ve lost.”