Burn(20)

“They’ve all been searched,” he said, sitting down, gesturing to the waitress for more coffee. “He’s not there. No one’s seen him.”

She looked at him askance. “He’s a moving target, Agent Dernovich. We aren’t watching all the campgrounds simultaneously. We haven’t even been honest about why the RCMP should be looking for him.”

This was true. He and Woolf were still there not-quite-officially. Their home office had had to come up with a cover story about a suspected Communist sympathizer, which Dernovich was pretty sure no Canadian would ever believe. Woolf had gotten nowhere with calls to local Believer Cells, but then she was a known apostate, so that wasn’t surprising. Not one of them even acknowledged knowing about the existence of a boy.

“Which is odd,” she said now. “If they were going to try and throw us off, they’d have pretended to know him. Create too many trails rather than denying there’s one at all. That’s how Believers work.”

“But that’s not what they did.”

“How they refused my inquiries suggests they thought I was a time-waster, that they actually didn’t know about the boy.”

“And so?”

She took a thoughtful breath. “Do you have children, Agent Dernovich?”

He coughed in his coffee. “We’ve been working together all this time, and you don’t know the answer to that question?”

“You didn’t know I was a former Believer.”

Touché, he thought. “All right. No, I don’t. I never met the right woman. I’m from a small town east of the mountains in Washington state. No one there wanted to do all the traveling I do, and no one in the East Coast offices wanted to settle in a tiny mountain town. Plus, you know, the work.”

“The work is extensive,” she said, in what for her probably counted as warmth.

“It’s the biggest regret of my life not having children. I lost three brothers in the war. I wanted a family more than anything but . . . not to be.” He felt the familiar despair in his chest at these thoughts, which made him even more annoyed that he’d revealed them all to Woolf. “Why do you want to know?” he asked, with considerably less grace.

“Believers raise their children communally,” she said.

“I know.”

“This is often mistaken for neglect, but that isn’t the truth. They’re protected fiercely, as it’s believed dragons do their broods.”

“So?”

“So how and why is a young Believer on his own in the winter in western Canada with no local Cell knowing who he is? There aren’t that many of them. If I were to walk into a Cell here, chances are I’d probably know at least two people personally.”

“So where did this boy come from?”

“And where might he be going, seemingly without the assistance of any other Cell?”

He looked down as she unfolded a road map. She’d circled five potential campgrounds, all of them within driving distance.

“What other leads do we have?” she said.

He knew she was right, of course.

Before he even asked Malcolm’s name, Nelson offered him food. It wasn’t much—some salted pork—but he held it out to Malcolm by way of greeting as Malcolm stepped into the circle of the campfire.

“Thank you,” Malcolm said. He took a bit of travel bread from his bag and added it to the mix. Nelson nodded gratefully. As he’d neared the campfire, Malcolm had guessed Nelson’s age at early twenties. Now that they sat eating, he saw that Nelson was younger, perhaps only a year or two older than Malcolm himself, if that.

“Nelson Arriaga,” Nelson said.

“Malcolm.”

“No last name?”

Malcolm mentally grabbed one at random from the list he’d memorized. “McCormack.”

“Scottish?”

Malcolm shrugged. “Just Canadian.”

Nelson laughed at that. “My grandparents came here from Guatemala. I can tell you for sure that no one will ever call us ‘just Canadian.’”

Malcolm smiled back, though to be honest, he didn’t quite understand.

They ate their small meal, and after, Nelson took out a rolled cigarette. He didn’t offer one to Malcolm, who wouldn’t have taken it anyway. To be honest, Malcolm didn’t quite know what to do now. The fire was warm, the food had been good, but the snow had picked up, little tablets of it drifting into their food as they ate. Malcolm needed to get back on the road, but it was just that little bit hard to get going right this minute.

“Where are you headed?” Nelson asked, and for a startled moment, Malcolm genuinely believed his mind had been read.

“South,” he said, vaguely.

“The border.” Not a question, merely the obvious assertion. “You crossing it?”

Malcolm went to one of the stories he’d been given. “I’m going to my aunt and uncle’s farm,” he said. “To work.”

Nelson raised an eyebrow. “In January?”

“Always work needing to be done on a farm.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” Nelson said, concentrating on his cigarette. “I’m heading that way. I could give you a ride.”

Malcolm perked up. “Ride?”