Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(63)

“Worse, better.” He shrugged, as if these things were all the same. On some greater balance than my own life, perhaps they are.

But this was no greater balance; this was only my time upon the earth, and I pushed him for more. Even though I didn’t really want to hear more, because I already suspected where the conversation was leading. “So the numbers, the instructions . . . they will dry up. And what becomes of me then?”

He gave me a long, hard look. Then his gaze softened. “The numbers will not abandon you,” he assured me. “They have changed in nature, that is all. They will accompany you for all the rest of your days.”

I let out a deep breath. It almost whistled as it left me. “Are you certain?”

“Quite certain. Your place in this story, your role . . . it will change, that is all.” He patted me on the knee, a reassuring gesture that did its job, albeit somewhat weakly.

“That’s a relief to hear. I was afraid, you know . . . afraid that I would be compelled to kill forever.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure! What are you suggesting?”

“That all is right with the universe, and nothing more. I am glad you will not be compelled to kill forever. I am glad you will never take pleasure in that task, or any greater pleasure—no, satisfaction, and I beg your pardon—than you’ve come to feel already. I am glad your task will change, and I wish you well on your new path, when you find it.”

I wasn’t sure I believed him. Something about that eyebrow lift, and something about that softened look . . . it was a gaze of pity. He pitied me, and I did not like that—because I didn’t know why.

Maybe it was only the obvious. That’s what I tried to think.

I thanked him for his time then, and stood in order to take my leave.

He stopped me with a hand on my arm. In a whisper, but at that same nearly frenetic pace of speech, he told me, “I’ve never held it against you, you know. The pain, the loss. I could see, when I awakened . . . I could see how you did what you were forced to do, and I saw that it was for the good of us all. I saw the things that wait on the other side, or in the middle distance—that’s a more appropriate way to put it. I know why you do what you do, and I admire you for the courage it’s taken to bring you to your task, and to this room, and to where you will proceed next.”

“Thank you . . . ?” I said. I must’ve made it a question. I wasn’t sure.

“No, it is my thanks—mine—that I extend. As well as my apologies, for I cannot be of any help to you, not really.”

“No one can.”

“You’re right.” His grip loosened, and his fingers slid down to my wrist, then my hand. He held it lightly, like a child who needs no real direction but wishes for the parent to feel safe. “But that’s fine, or it will be fine. I wished to say that others will come and take over your duties . . . but that isn’t the case, not quite. Your numbers dwindle, they dwindle, they do. It is either very good, or very bad, now that I consider it.”

I drew my hand away, for his gentle stroking felt strange. “Now that you consider it?”

“Now that I’ve had more time to consider it, I should say, for I consider everything. Your numbers dwindle, perhaps, because there are fewer left who need to die. So the threat, you see . . . the threat will either be vanquished very soon—or it will find victory. Either way, either way . . .” He mumbled the rest: “Either way, there are fewer left who need to die ahead of the cosmic schedule. Fewer keys to be tried in that terrible lock.”

I was half afraid to extricate myself, but he did not take hold of me again—and did not bear me so much as a formal farewell as I left his room. I don’t think he even looked at me again. It was as if he’d fallen asleep upright, seated on the bed as he was.

Back into the corridor I moved like a phantom. I felt like a phantom, like smoke. I stepped out of the way of gurneys rolling to and fro. I dodged the nurses and the nuns with their trays of pills and their folders full of paperwork.

I veritably danced, as this was veritably a ballet of ghosts.

Back outside, and back into the sun I stepped. I shielded my eyes, for it seemed very bright—I don’t know why, for the interior of the hospital was bright as well. I can’t imagine why it pained me for those thick, muddy seconds while my eyes adjusted. But pain me it did, along with many other things. Poor Mr. Lorino. Poor me. Poor everyone, if the Chapelwood men have their way, and their god is allowed inside our world.

I began the return walk to my flophouse room, deep in thought. I didn’t realize how late it had become; that harsh, angled light was a result of afternoon toppling toward evening—and the air cooled as the hours stretched. I would be home before dark, certainly. I was not afraid. I was the thing other people were afraid of.

? ? ?

I’m not sure when I first noticed that my feet were cold.

The rest of me wasn’t cold. My face was flushed with exertion and the low sun’s blush, and even my hands—which often do run toward chill—were just fine, buried within my jacket pockets. If anything, I was almost a little warm. That’s why it surprised me. That’s why it snuck up on me, I assume.

My feet were cold, so I looked down at them, and I think there’s a chance, for a shattered fraction of a second, that my heart stopped.