Page 27 of Capitol Matters (Marionette #2)

The quarantine center had a sort of nuclear fallout shelter vibe. Biohazard signs were plastered across every surface along with frequent reminders to wear masks and wash hands. The staff wore various types of PPE, including the receptionist manning the front desk who peered at me with suspicion as I gave her my name.

“As in the Fitch Farrow?” Her eyes narrowed.

I nodded.

She wanted to kick me out, I could tell. Dial up the Capitol and cash in on that sweet bounty payout. But the price had been removed from my head—or rather distributed to one Jacoby Thatcher, who split his prize money with me. The receptionist could call whoever she wanted, though I preferred Maximus and his brood didn’t know I was here.

Hallways branched right and left from this central room. It was a guest waiting area, I gathered from the rows of chairs and side tables that might have offered magazines before it became too dangerous to share such things between strangers. The air reeked of bleach, which explained the blindingly white palette of the place. Either because it started out that way or had been scrubbed clean of color in the endless war on germs.

Strange to know the cause of all this mess was one man playing zombie video games in a motel room ten minutes away. During the cab ride here, I’d thought about my experiences with Ripley and my assumptions about him, and I realized something. The plague wasn’t deadly because it wasn’t intended to be. That meant, unless Ripley’s magic wasn’t potent enough to kill, he was holding back. Not unlike what Donovan and I were doing by keeping Maximus’s victims miserably alive: allowing short-term suffering for the reward of survival afterward.

“Who would you like to see?” the receptionist asked.

“A coworker,” I said, then realized she needed more to go on than that. “Tobin Moreno.”

“Room 113,” the receptionist said. “And mask up, please.”

The soda bottle jutted awkwardly out of the back pocket of my jeans. Luckily there were no signs banning outside food or drinks, or I might have given up on this mercy mission.

Per the receptionist’s instructions, I took a paper mask from the box on the counter and looped it over my ears. It blanketed my nose and mouth, immediately stifling.

Having no further guidance than the room number left me searching the walls for arrows to direct me to my destination. I hoped my late arrival had given his family time to clear out since I couldn’t begin to answer whatever questions they might have had. And, if they recognized me, I doubted they would be as subtly surprised as Miss Receptionist.

At last, I got enough sense of the place to find my way to Room 113.

Clear plastic sheeting hung inside the doorframe. I pushed through it into a standard hospital room outfitted with a single bed, IV pole, and accompanying monitor to track vitals. A pair of reclining chairs faced me from the opposite wall—empty, thank God.

In the bed, Tobin sat upright, looking gaunter than I remembered. His naturally tan skin had a yellowish pallor, and his expression was drawn but able to look spiteful as he glared at me.

“Did you come to finish the job?” he grunted.

“Don’t tempt me,” I replied. As I approached, the heartrate monitor began a steady climb.

“Why’d they let you in here?” he asked.

Passing him, I grabbed one of the recliners and dragged it to the bedside. My move toward sitting was interrupted by the crunch of the soda bottle in my pocket. I sprung back up, tugging it loose and setting it on the floor before dropping heavily into the seat.

“It’s like that when you’re dying,” I mused. “They wanna make sure everyone gets a chance to say their goodbyes, make peace, no regrets, all that.”

Sweat glistened on Tobin’s forehead and pasted his black hair to his brow. “Well, since I’m dying, I want to ask you something. And I want the truth.”

“Shoot.”

“Is it true what they say about your finger tats?”

I glanced down at my hands clasped in my lap. Rings of black ink wound around every digit. “What do they say?” I asked.

The investigator drew a labored breath. “That they’re trophies from all the people you’ve killed.”

Sensational journalism, I could have claimed. Tabloids and their wild theories. There were plenty of mistruths spread about me, but this particular rumor was well-informed.

I didn’t respond before Tobin continued, “How many have you got, anyway?”

“Thirty,” I replied. “But I’m missing a few.”

“You sick fuck,” he seethed. The potency of his anger seemed to leech the life out of him, but he had enough vigor to prop up on his elbows. His body strained as he leaned toward me and said, “You know what I’d do if I could? I’d cut your damn hands off. Put them on display so I could have some trophies of my own.”

He would regret saying that after I saved his stupid life. Or not. He didn’t seem the type to learn even from lessons taught the hard way. I could relate.

I kicked back in the chair, pushing the footrest up and out. “Display like how? Wall hooks? Cell phone stand? Sex toys?”

The heart monitor beeped frantically. We’d gone from fear to rage in a matter of seconds. Tobin huffed and puffed as his cheeks lost color .

“Take it easy.” Sighing, I bent to retrieve the bottle from beside my feet. “This stuff is powerful, but I don’t think it’ll help if you stroke out.”

The investigator squirmed away as I raised the container to his line of sight.

“What the hell is that?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

I spun the cap and let it fall to the floor, then gave the slime inside a swirl. “You didn’t get it from me, all right? It’s important no one knows I have this.”

If it worked, I was banking on his gratitude for a new lease on life to keep him from yapping about my ability to produce the secret ingredient to his survival.

“What is it?” he repeated.

“The cure.”

His eyes widened. “For the plague?”

I snorted. “No, for your raging case of herpes. Yes, the plague.”

He reached an unsteady hand toward the bottle, trailing wires and tubes from the IV drip. “Where’d you get it?” When he held it up to the light like it was some holy thing, I stifled a laugh.

“ I didn’t get it anywhere,” I told him. “I was never here.”

And why would I be? We weren’t friends. Even calling him a coworker had been a stretch of the truth. It was enough to make me question my motives.

“How do I know this isn’t a trick?” Tobin asked after a pause.

The beeping of the nearby machinery had returned to a stable pace. There would be no heart attack on my watch, though the investigator looked no less wary—or fearful. Was he more scared of me or his own impending death?

I gestured to the soda bottle he clutched. “If you don’t want it, don’t take it.” I shrugged. “I’ve done my bit.” Or whatever was necessary to live with myself. Bonus, if Tobin survived, it would make Holland’s life better. She’d already lost her childhood friend. There was no need to take anything else from her.

Standing, I patted the bed beside Tobin’s leg. “Get well soon,” I told him. “And don’t hurry back to work or anything. That would be suspicious.”

The investigator’s scarce nod was suspicious in its own right, but I didn’t think too long on it. As much as I wanted to hang around and watch him guzzle Ripley’s saliva, hospitals—and quarantine centers—gave me the heebie-jeebies. Not to mention that if I came down with the plague, I would be the next one taking a shot of the sketchy healer’s magic slobber.

I slept better that night, giving credence to Ripley’s claims about the benefits of doing good for a change. My mood remained uncharacteristically sunny until I entered the Investigative Department the next morning and found the place abuzz with activity.

People clustered in the center of the room, all talking at once. I had to get close to see the source of the commotion: a man in his signature gray suit with all the vim and vigor of life .

Tobin Moreno commanded the awe of the crowd and drew my ire as he exclaimed, “Fitch Farrow, you sly dog. You’ve been holding out on us.”

I grimaced. Clearly, he’d been broadcasting his good news to all who would hear—including Felix and Vesper who stood by, watching me with a mix of appreciation and condemnation.

Tobin wove through the rabble toward me. He flashed a grin as he clapped a hand on my back.

“Turns out you’re a damn good consultant, after all.” His smile turned wolfish as he asked, “Tell us, who did you consult with to find that magic formula?”

A dozen pairs of eyes fixed on me. The entirety of the Department waited with bated breath while my pulse throbbed in my ears.

“You know,” Tobin said, “I didn’t believe it when Felix tried to convince us you weren’t so bad. Now I think you’re just washed up, and that’s why the Bloody Hex doesn’t want you anymore. Or maybe you’re playing the long con.” He leaned in with a conspiratorial squint. “Which is it?”

After a handful of seconds with Tobin gripping my shoulder as though afraid I would bolt before giving the answers he wanted, I muttered the only thing I could think to say.

“You fucking dick. I should’ve let you die.”

The investigator laughed uproariously.

There would be fallout from this. I was living the definition of the adage: No good deed goes unpunished.

Holland raced into the bullpen, clearly having learned of Tobin’s miraculous recovery .

“Toby?” She split a gawking stare between the other man and me. “You look great! What happened?”

I should have pinned Tobin’s mouth shut before he answered, “The new plague cure is astonishingly effective.”

“There’s a cure?” Holland asked.

Still anchored by the other man’s grip, I cupped my hand to my face.

“Sure is.” Tobin jerked a thumb my way. “Farrow gave it to me.”

My opportunity to deny it had come and gone before I walked into the building. Tobin turned up early to share his good news and hang me out to dry. So much for expecting his gratitude.

Holland turned toward me. “Fitch, is that true?”

Tobin didn’t wait for my answer before reaching to a nearby desktop to grab a familiar soda bottle. “I’ve got some of it right here,” he said.

“That’s a bottle of spit,” I grumbled.

Too little, too late.

Holland’s expression turned to aggravation as she barked a gruff command. “Both of you, come with me. Now.”

Tobin marched proudly forward while I lagged behind.

When we passed Holland’s office, my concern grew. She led us out of the Investigative Department and down the halls toward the more ostentatious part of the building. I recognized the path before we reached Maximus Lyle’s private chambers.

Holland didn’t pause or even knock before entering, ushering us both into the room where her father waited. My dread was compounded, and every excuse became paper thin when I spotted the second person occupying a seat in the office. Maximus’s trusty sidekick, Jacoby Thatcher, regarded my arrival with thinly masked surprise.

Curse words populated my brain, but none made it past my lips.

I froze in the doorway while Holland blurted, “There’s a cure!”

Tobin strutted across the floor in front of the fireplace as though he were on display.

Maximus stood, and Thatcher followed suit, and I wanted to shrink into the hall. But the door swung closed and trapped me inside with the rest of them.

Silence answered the declaration that brought presumed doubt from Maximus. I didn’t need to wonder about Thatcher’s feelings. Splotches of red spread up from his shirt collar to stain his face, and his jaw quivered from clenching too tightly.

Swallowing, sweating, and shifting from side to side, I could think of nothing to say. I should have seen this coming but was honestly shocked at Tobin’s willingness to give me credit for finding the cure. More surprised than I should have been, considering he’d twisted what might have been a point in my favor into proof I was keeping secrets that cost people’s lives.

“Your new consultant is a golden goose,” Tobin proclaimed. “Shitting out miracles.”

He beamed a smile as he walked forward with the soda bottle in hand and planted it on Maximus’s desktop .

Holland nodded in agreement, and Maximus and Thatcher continued to stare until Tobin gestured to me and said, “Tell them, Fitch.”