A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children, #4)(54)

Two old-style police cars screamed into the parking lot. I scooped the two packages into my arms and folded the place mat map between them, then slid out of the booth. H did a two-finger whistle. His hollowgast uncurled itself from the floor and bounded after us toward the hallway, tame as an old hound.

“A few things to remember,” H said, talking as we walked. “Peculiar places and people in America aren’t like what you’re used to. It’s a mess over here. No ymbrynes to speak of. In some places, it’s every peculiar for themselves, and you can’t trust just anybody.”

“And there’s been fighting between some of the loops?” I said.

He shot me a look over his shoulder. “Let’s hope not. And I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but I will say this. You might have chased the wights out of Europe, but I have a feeling they’re not done with us over here. I think they’d like a war between the peculiars. I think that would suit their ends just fine.”

He opened the door to the cold-storage room and we filed in. “Another thing. Don’t tell people who you’re working with. The organization never reveals itself.”

“What about Miss Peregrine?” Emma asked.

“Not even her.”

We entered the curtained-off area and crowded into the corner where the X had been. As we were crossing over, something occurred to me. When the rushing sensation had abated and we were all back in the present, I asked, “If there are no ymbrynes anymore, how does this loop stay open?”

H parted the plastic curtains and his hollowgast ran out. “I didn’t say there were none,” H said. “But the ones we’ve got—the ones that are left, I should say—aren’t exactly of the caliber you’re used to.”

Out in the hallway, our friendly old waitress was leaned against the wall, puffing from a cigarette and blowing the smoke out an exit door.

“We were just talking about you,” said H, smiling wide. “Miss Abernathy, how are you doing?”

She tossed her cigarette out the door and gave H a spindly hug. “You don’t come visit me anymore, you bad man.”

“Been real busy, Norma.”

“Sure, sure.”

“Is she an ymbryne?” said Emma.

“Some people call us demi-ymbrynes,” Norma said, “but I think loop-keeper rolls off the tongue better. I can’t turn myself into a bird or make new loops or anything fancy like that, but I can keep open ones going a good long time. Pay’s okay, too.”

“The pay?”

“You think I’d do this out of the goodness of my heart?” She threw back her head and cackled.

“Norma here manages a small portfolio of loops around South Florida,” said H. “The organization keeps her on retainer.” H reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of money in a rubber band. “Thanks for your help today.”

“It’s a strictly cash business,” said Norma, winking as she stuffed the wad into her apron. “Gotta avoid the tax man!” She laughed again and waddled into the storage room. “I better close up shop, see what kind of mess you all made. Don’t let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya.”

We went out to the parking lot together. The moon was high and the night air cool. The hollowgast ran to chase a stray cat, and we walked toward my car, one of only two left in the lot.

“So,” I said, “we deliver these packages, then we get the real mission?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

He grinned out of the side of his mouth. “On whether you make it.”

“We’ll make it,” said Emma. “But no more surprise hollowgast attacks, okay?”

“If you see any more hollows, they won’t be Horatio, so you better make sure you kill ’em.”

We arrived at my car. When H saw the missing bumper and the wired-shut door, he winced. “You can drive, can’t you, son?”

“It wasn’t me,” I said. “I’m a good driver.”

“I hope so, because you need to be for this job. Good or not, you can’t drive that thing—you’ll get pulled over by the cops every ten miles. Take one of Abe’s instead.”

“Abe didn’t drive. He doesn’t have a car.”

“Oh, he does. A beauty, too.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “You mean to tell me you got all the way down to his underground bunker but you didn’t find his . . .” He laughed and shook his head.

“His what?” Emma and I said at the same time.

“There’s another door down there.”

He turned to go.

“Can you tell us anything about the mission?” I said.

“You’ll know when you need to know, and no sooner,” he replied. “But I can tell you this: It involves an uncontacted peculiar child who’s in trouble. In New York City.”

“So why don’t you go help them?” Emma said.

“I’m getting a bit long in the tooth, if you haven’t noticed. I got sciatica, bad knees, high sugar . . . and anyhow, I’m not the right person for the job.”

“We are,” I said. “I promise you that.”

“That’s what I’m hoping. Good luck to you both.”