Across from me, Henry appears devastated but determined. Up close, his bruises are the same brilliant red as the sunrise. The sorrow in his eyes shoots through me. But that’s all I see. No confusion. No befuddlement. No traumatic brain injury. The Sight has shown me that this isn’t always the case. Something about Henry’s condition feels like hope.
Let me. He mouths these words. Despite everything, the principal field agent is still in place. And yes, Henry would sacrifice himself to save me and the world. But that’s not going to work. Even if it could? I’m not as heroic as all that. I can’t sacrifice Henry.
The dam builds, and I sniff. We are very close now, but not close enough. Botten must speak the ritual. So I do the one thing no one should do when staring down her own death, never mind the end of the world.
I wink at Henry.
No, I certainly haven’t mastered the sexier-than-it-has-a-right-to-be variety, but Henry’s eyes widen. Then he schools his expression, churning out a schoolmaster frown.
Botten dismisses me with a shake of his head and pulls a sheet of paper from his trouser pocket. I don’t think he needs this; he’s no doubt memorized the words, but he makes a show of reviewing the text, running a finger down the page. He begins, his voice deep and sonorous, spreading out across the housing development.
Agents on the perimeter bow their heads as if in prayer. Some, I suspect, even have their eyes closed. A second row stands with their backs turned, umbrellas unfurled, although the Screamers are dormant, or perhaps only waiting. But the setup is deliberate, a way for Botten to ensure there are no witnesses. Or at least very few.
The last of Botten’s words ring out across the space. His chest swells with satisfaction, and he lets the paper drift to the ground. It flutters like a dying leaf before being sucked into the fissure. The ground undulates, a rise and fall beneath our feet that feels like impatience.
Hungry, indeed.
Unencumbered, Botten reaches for the knife, the one unobtrusively attached to his belt. He unfastens the catch, the sound so loud in a morning without birdsong. Before he can extract the blade, I speak.
“Are you sure you’re ready?” My words still his hand.
Botten glances toward me but doesn’t respond.
Once I’m certain I’ve caught his attention, I give him my most beatific smile. “Don’t you first need to pick a wild rose for your wild Rose?”
He grips the knife’s handle, knuckles white and protruding. Slowly, he turns from Henry and toward me. “What did you say?”
I continue to smile as blood streams from my nose. It’s not a gush, not yet, but the dam has fractured.
Comprehension lights Botten’s eyes, followed by a wrath so vicious, I take a step back. His expression contorts, but he calculates the distance between us. No, he’s not fool enough to jump the fissure, but he unsheathes the knife.
Then, as I hoped, Reginald Botten comes for me.
Chapter 87
Henry
King’s End, Minnesota
Sunday, July 16
Pansy’s wink nearly did him in. Made his mind blank in confusion. Made his skull pound.
Made his heart soar.
What had she seen? Something crucial. Something devastating, perhaps. Something that triggered Botten and gave them a fighting chance. And that wash of obscene red? Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he’d expected that.
The key to everything. Henry wanted to damn everyone. Reginald Botten. Max Monroe. Rose Little. Even his father. Everyone who’d brought them to this moment and forced Pansy into this role.
Before he could act, a massive blur flew forward, an impressive combination of speed and bulk, someone with a cobalt blue umbrella strapped cross-body, the canopy reverberating with fury.
“No!” Henry shouted, but it was too late.
Mortimer Connolly barreled into Botten. The knife flew skyward, spun end over end, and landed wide of the fissure. With a roar that spoke of betrayal, of anguish, Mort used the full force of his strength and weight to send the older man plummeting into that gray and endless expanse.
An angry tremor rumbled beneath their feet. Shouts went up. A few agents simply bolted from the housing development. Another quake knocked Mort off balance and sent him stumbling toward the fissure.
He teetered at the edge. His arms flailed, boots skidded against loose dirt. Henry lunged forward and stretched out his bound hands. Mort looped an arm through his. For one breathless moment, they hung suspended, not quite defying gravity. Henry’s back, his ribs, his gut all protested the move, but he yanked, and they went tumbling across the sparse grass.
