“Nothing.”
Hiram isn’t convinced, but won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. “Fine. Can you also point me to someone who can reverse a scrambling hex? Unofficially, of course. It’s for an investigation.”
“I did not realize you’d started consulting,” Barrett replies, as casually as if he were commenting on the weather. “Commander Bishop only mentioned you visiting the FCD.”
“Your informant is correct.” Of course his father is watching him. “Like I said, it’s unofficial. A favor of sorts, but keep that to yourself. Or do I need your permission—”
“I was checking up on you, Hiram. Your mother is concerned with how secretive you have been. You only provide the bare minimum, so we look for other ways to connect with you. How are we to fix things when you hardly visit and never call?”
“Not as fun when the tables turn, is it?”
Barrett sidesteps the topic. “What sort of case is it?”
“One you disagree with morally. It involves Seers. A murder case.”
“The Botanist killings.”
Hiram frowns. “How do you know about it?”
“I make it my business to know about cases that could lead to another mass Vanishing.” Barrett falls silent. “You should not get involved in these things. It is dangerous, and you have Antaris to think about.”
“Too late,” Hiram says flatly. “What do you know?”
“The monsters we create are an extension of us, our fears and desires. We fit them with our entitlement and tell them they deserve what they have not earned. But in the end, nature has a way of balancing wrong into right, if not immediately, then eventually.”
Hiram doesn’t like how this sounds. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“A lot, but I will bring you what you need to know.” His father pauses. “As for the scrambling hex, they are nearly impossible to undo—you must have a grasp of the language as well as talent. I would normally suggest your cousin Francis, but no. Ask former Congressman Desai. I have never seen anyone decode like he can.”
Hiram is surprised. “How do you know him?”
“When he was elected to Congress, I was in my third term. Your grandfather was finishing his last in the Senate. There was a firestorm when he first arrived; some refused to be in the same room with Desai, let alone serve on the same committee. They had to translate everything into braille. Someone always sent his official correspondences with a scrambling hex, thinking it would stop him, but he was always on time, prepared. Your grandfather could not stand it ... or him, for that matter.”
Not a single insult. If anything, his father sounds impressed. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Did you participate?”
“No.”
“But you did nothing to stop it.”
“No.”
“I see.” Apathetic avoidance is the pitfall of a peacekeeper. Discomfort leaves Hiram feeling uneasy. “I’ll ask Clinton for assistance.”
“You’re welcome,” Barrett says. “Allow me to be delusional enough to believe you were going to thank me.”
Hiram will. Just once. “Thank you.”
“Is there anything else?” his father asks.
No. Yet the question burns, leaving Hiram choking on smoke. “Did you ever want to stand up for him?”
Barrett exhales. “The past is complicated. I did what I needed to get where I wanted to—”
“That wasn’t my question.”
