That makes sense. I guess? Either that, or it’s a huge intrusion of privacy. Not that the Enclave has ever been big on privacy.
“What are you waiting for?” Mort prompts.
Jack turns his attention to his laptop, a light tapping of the keyboard filling the speakers. “Found it,” he says a moment later.
Both Mort and I lean forward. Mort’s hair flops into his eyes, and he shoves it back with an impatient hand. I clutch the teacup so hard, it might shatter between my fingers.
Jack clears his throat and takes on an imperious sort of tone. “‘Cadet Pansy Little is an adequate, if unremarkable, trainee. She could become a productive permanent post agent with additional instruction from the right mentor.’”
For an instant, none of us says anything. Then? We all burst out laughing.
Mort wipes tears from his eyes, his voice full of mirth. “You’ve got this, Pansy-Girl. You’ve totally got this. I told you Darnelle was completely by the book. Play by the rules, fulfill his expectations, and you’ll be fine.”
That’s harder than it sounds, but if both Jack and Mort think I can do it, then maybe I can. We talk for a few more minutes, and when the call ends, the silence that rushes in takes me aback. My heart pounds, and there’s a tender spot in my chest that aches with both loneliness and regret. Maybe I should have confessed that I’m here alone, that my mother is gone. But when she wrote:
Trust no one from the Enclave.
She meant no one. And while it isn’t there, scrawled in black ink on a yellow legal pad, I know this.
That rule includes my two best friends.
Chapter 6
Pansy
King’s End, Minnesota
Sunday, July 9
The coffeemaker gurgles a protest as if being pressed into service so early is not something it usually does. Lately, at least, that’s been true.
But it’s six thirty in the morning, and I’m certain Agent Darnelle is the sort to arrive the second it’s seven o’clock. I’ve already done an hour’s worth of yoga, but I need to be caffeinated before he shows up on my front porch.
While the coffee brews, I consider what I’ll need to take with me today. My umbrella, of course, and the backpack I carry whenever I venture into the housing development. It’s actually the same backpack I used all through training at the Academy. The olive-drab canvas has never quite lost its musty smell from weeks of roughing it in the damp summers of Washington state.
The scent is almost like a balm, a reminder of when things weren’t quite so complicated, when I dreamed of maybe—maybe—taking on the world as an actual field agent rather than a permanent post one.
I tuck a water bottle into the backpack’s side pocket, add wire cutters, pliers, and a spool of wire for repairing the chain-link fence around the housing development, and a few of my mother’s tinctures in case I get hit on site.
While I pack, I ponder the question rolling around in my mind. Do I really want to take Henry Darnelle to the housing development? Do I have a choice? Of all the areas around King’s End, it has the most Screamer activity and contains all the major fissures. It would look strange if I didn’t take him there.
It’s now 6:55, and I resist the urge to flash ten minutes into my future. I touch fingertips to my forehead and let out a long, cleansing breath. I push the nattering, the whispered suggestions, the temptation to the back of my mind. I hold still until those branching lines of the future fade into mere hunches that I can ignore.
When I open my eyes, the coffeemaker’s clock switches to 7:00.
The doorbell chimes.
Yes. Of course it does. No doubt Field Agent Extraordinaire Henry Darnelle is always on time.
On my front porch, he’s there, resplendent as ever in suit, tie, and ridiculous hat. On one arm is that behemoth of an umbrella; on the other is a reusable sack. He must have stopped by The King’s Larder, because the aroma of still-warm bagels joins the scent of the fresh coffee from the kitchen. The combination makes me weak-kneed with hunger and possibly gratitude.
I wasn’t expecting him to make good on his offer. That he has? I don’t know if I’ve misjudged him or if this is merely a technique to soften me up. But if so, what on earth for?
The kill.
It’s the one whispered thought that pushes through all the barriers I’ve thrown up against the Sight. Does Henry Darnelle not expect me to pass this examination? Me, unremarkable Pansy Little? I suppose that might be a reasonable assumption, given my performance at the Academy.
True, we’ve only just met, but the whispered thought doesn’t sound like him. I may be an odious chore, but I’m not more than that, not to him anyway. Before I can open up that line of inquiry, probe the Sight ever-so-carefully, he nods, a bit terse.
