on innumerable river currents.
I shoved the gun into my jacket pocket, smoothed it against my side, and shoveled Swedish meatballs into my mouth. Images of the Body haunted me. I would have to find it and search for the connection. I didn’t want to.
When I crawled out from under the table, Yellow was looking for me, his face hard and red. “There you are.”
“You don’t remember my little hideaway?”
“You’ve got lots of little hideaways, you know. Have you been drinking?”
“Only to calm myself.”
Yellow walked off, and I followed. If he truly didn’t remember eating the meatballs under the table, he must not remember the gun either. I said, “You know, it seems like I’m a bit untethered.”
“Untethered. Yes. Good word for it.”
“You recall the sensation, then?”
He straightened, as if trying to make himself taller than me. “Of course. You’ve done something major to our past.” I don’t think I imagined the blame in his voice, and he refused to look at me.
We walked along the hall, away from the ballroom. “Given this some thought, I see.”
“Yes,” he said, condescending sneer flashing at me, and then, after a pause, “and I’ve been chatting with Seventy.” I was starting to hate his sweater.
We went through a service entrance and took the back staircase, filthy with greasy handprints, up two flights. At the third-floor landing, Yellow held the door for me. “You’ll have years to speculate about all of this.” He avoided looking at me when he spoke. I smelled cleaning chemicals; the hallway outside the stairwell was dark. “Where are we?”
“Something I have to show you.”
“Not again.”
“Just go to the right. Second door.”
I followed his directions, and he followed me. My jacket hung uneven from the gun’s weight, and I tugged down on the opposite side. I passed the first door and approached the second, from which light fell through to the corridor’s floor. Shadows moved and voices echoed. As I stepped into the doorway, I was blinded for a moment by the brightness. A ceiling fixturewith three high-wattage bulbs and a cluster of floor lamps illuminated every corner. The room’s windows were papered over, and rain lashed against them. Along the walls dozens of chairs were stacked one upon another; piles of table linens and round tabletops leaned against the dark windows. In the room’s center sat a table, its round top covered by a white cloth. The cloth lay over a human figure, turning it into a landscape, a snow-covered mountain range, head and feet the highest peaks. At either end stood Seventy and Screwdriver.
I cleared my throat. So did they.
Seventy placed a hand on the tabletop. For a long moment, I thought he would pull back the cloth in some sort of magical reveal. Even though I’d already seen the Body, the idea disturbed me. I didn’t want to see it again. I knew I needed to see it again. I wondered when I’d begun to think of it as “it.”
Instead Seventy used the table for support. “How goes your investigation?”
I let out a breath that sounded like a tire deflating. “Well, I did meet a woman.”
“You
saw
a woman.”
“Yes. With you. Who is she?”
Seventy and Screwdriver looked at each other. Seventy’s posture spoke of secrets, but Screwdriver released a shuddering breath that reminded me of Sober, and I caught a whiff of his grim determination. I wanted to ask questions I knew he wouldn’t answer. Voices, nasal and angry, came from outside—parrots just beyond the papered windows, arguing about investment opportunities.
Seventy said, “When you’ve met her, you can say you met her.”
“I get it. Who is she?”
“I’m not trying to be difficult. You’ll understand when you meet her. There’s a huge difference between seeing her and meeting her,” Seventy said. “And a larger difference between meeting her and knowing her.”
“All right, so I saw her. I’ll meet her later.” I tried one more time.
I shoved the gun into my jacket pocket, smoothed it against my side, and shoveled Swedish meatballs into my mouth. Images of the Body haunted me. I would have to find it and search for the connection. I didn’t want to.
When I crawled out from under the table, Yellow was looking for me, his face hard and red. “There you are.”
“You don’t remember my little hideaway?”
“You’ve got lots of little hideaways, you know. Have you been drinking?”
“Only to calm myself.”
Yellow walked off, and I followed. If he truly didn’t remember eating the meatballs under the table, he must not remember the gun either. I said, “You know, it seems like I’m a bit untethered.”
“Untethered. Yes. Good word for it.”
“You recall the sensation, then?”
He straightened, as if trying to make himself taller than me. “Of course. You’ve done something major to our past.” I don’t think I imagined the blame in his voice, and he refused to look at me.
We walked along the hall, away from the ballroom. “Given this some thought, I see.”
“Yes,” he said, condescending sneer flashing at me, and then, after a pause, “and I’ve been chatting with Seventy.” I was starting to hate his sweater.
We went through a service entrance and took the back staircase, filthy with greasy handprints, up two flights. At the third-floor landing, Yellow held the door for me. “You’ll have years to speculate about all of this.” He avoided looking at me when he spoke. I smelled cleaning chemicals; the hallway outside the stairwell was dark. “Where are we?”
“Something I have to show you.”
“Not again.”
“Just go to the right. Second door.”
I followed his directions, and he followed me. My jacket hung uneven from the gun’s weight, and I tugged down on the opposite side. I passed the first door and approached the second, from which light fell through to the corridor’s floor. Shadows moved and voices echoed. As I stepped into the doorway, I was blinded for a moment by the brightness. A ceiling fixturewith three high-wattage bulbs and a cluster of floor lamps illuminated every corner. The room’s windows were papered over, and rain lashed against them. Along the walls dozens of chairs were stacked one upon another; piles of table linens and round tabletops leaned against the dark windows. In the room’s center sat a table, its round top covered by a white cloth. The cloth lay over a human figure, turning it into a landscape, a snow-covered mountain range, head and feet the highest peaks. At either end stood Seventy and Screwdriver.
I cleared my throat. So did they.
Seventy placed a hand on the tabletop. For a long moment, I thought he would pull back the cloth in some sort of magical reveal. Even though I’d already seen the Body, the idea disturbed me. I didn’t want to see it again. I knew I needed to see it again. I wondered when I’d begun to think of it as “it.”
Instead Seventy used the table for support. “How goes your investigation?”
I let out a breath that sounded like a tire deflating. “Well, I did meet a woman.”
“You
saw
a woman.”
“Yes. With you. Who is she?”
Seventy and Screwdriver looked at each other. Seventy’s posture spoke of secrets, but Screwdriver released a shuddering breath that reminded me of Sober, and I caught a whiff of his grim determination. I wanted to ask questions I knew he wouldn’t answer. Voices, nasal and angry, came from outside—parrots just beyond the papered windows, arguing about investment opportunities.
Seventy said, “When you’ve met her, you can say you met her.”
“I get it. Who is she?”
“I’m not trying to be difficult. You’ll understand when you meet her. There’s a huge difference between seeing her and meeting her,” Seventy said. “And a larger difference between meeting her and knowing her.”
“All right, so I saw her. I’ll meet her later.” I tried one more time.
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