Page 104

“Did Urrea tell you who she is?”

“He said she was a god, or carried a god within her.”

“Not a goddess?”

“He wasn’t prepared to commit.”

“Fucking woke is everywhere. So which god?”

“Urrea wasn’t sure.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Acrement.

“But not that one, I’ll wager.”

Acrement glanced back at the car.

“What will she do when this is over?” he asked.

“Sleep, I imagine.”

“No,” said Acrement, “I think she’ll decay.”

“Let’s call it ‘resting,’?” said Seeley. “It sounds less disconcerting.”

THEY SWITCHED VEHICLES FORwhat Seeley hoped would be the final time. He and la Señora picked up I-66, then 495 North to cross the Potomac into Maryland. Seeley would have preferred to avoid the highways, but the paucity of bridges restricted his options and he wanted to leave Virginia behind as quickly as possible. They entered Pennsylvania, where they stopped at a hotel for the night. Seeley booked two adjoining rooms, unlocked the door between them, and slept soundly, knowing the woman would not close her eyes. He woke refreshed to the noise of late-night traffic and considered finding a convenience store or fast-food restaurant. He knocked at the connecting door out of politeness and opened it without being invited to enter.

La Señora was sitting in a chair by the window, the blackout blinds raised but the thin drapes kept in place so she could observe without being observed in turn. Seeley tried to keep his expression neutral. La Señora had aged visibly during the time he’d been asleep. There were more lines on her skin, which was now little more than a pellucid membrane over bone. Her hair was finer, her body frailer, and her eyes were rheumy. Perhaps consuming pieces of her victims’ hearts was an effort to sustain herself—Seeley hadn’t cared to ask—but if so, it was failing.

“We are almost at an end,” she said, and Seeley knew that she was referring both to their mission and herself.

“What can I do?” Seeley asked.

“Help me finish it. Take me to the last of my children.”

CHAPTERLXXVIII

Angel, Louis, and I sat in my kitchen, where I popped two more painkillers and waited for Macy to join us. While Wyatt Riggins had been practicing his swing on me, she’d been in Houston, Texas, bringing a northern perspective to a multi-agency panel on border security. She’d kept in touch with the hospital—Angel had told her what happened—but she hadn’t been able to get back to Maine until that evening. She arrived at my home just as the Tylenol began to kick in—which was fortunate because she immediately commenced shouting, causing my head to start hurting again, though not as much as it might have done without the pills.

“What were you thinking? You knew Riggins might be dangerous, and still you tried to beard him without backup. Were you even armed?”

“I wanted to reason with him,” I replied, “not kill him.”

“And how did that work out for both of you?”

“Better for him than me,” I admitted.

Macy transferred her ire to Angel and Louis.

“Where were you two while all this was going on?”

Louis looked at Angel, who shrugged.

“I think we were eating lunch,” said Louis. “I had the fish.”

“He definitely had the fish,” said Angel.

I thought Macy might be about to flatten both of them, but the urge passed and she took a seat at the table. Louis poured her a mug of coffee and Angel slipped her a Two Fat Cats cookie he’d found at the back of the bread basket.