“It is. Itwas. And the jury decided they’d met that burden.”
“But there are hundreds of parents who were found innocent, because of the surrogates.”
“I know. That’s because every jury is different. Every lawyer is different. Every judge is different. And every case is different. Even when we’re talking about the reaping. Statistically, parents who drowned or drugged their children were more likely to be found innocent than those who stabbed or shot their own kids, because juries don’t want to believe parents who truly love their children could possibly kill them in such a brutal, painful way. Your parents—”
“Iknow—” Rebecca cleared her throat, then started over. “I know how it happened. I was there.”
“My point is that even though we’ve decided as a society to recognize that the reaping was a large-scale, coordinated attack upon our most vulnerable citizens, on an individual level, lawyers have had varying degrees of success using that to cast doubt upon their clients’ guilt. For us, the pendulum swung the wrong way. And since the Supreme Court already declined to hear a similar case from another set of parents last month, we have no higher court to appeal to.”
“This is really over?”
“I’m afraid so. I’m sorry, Rebecca.”
“They lost three of their four children, through no fault of their own, and they’re going to spend the rest of their lives in prison.”
“Unfortunately. And several of my colleagues believe that to be a somewhat subconscious mercy, on the part of the juries.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, in more than half of the reaping cases that have gone to trial so far, the parents have been found guilty for up to six counts of infanticide. Some through horrible methods. But not one jury has handed down a death sentence, even in states where that would normally be pretty likely. That seems to indicate that, at least on some level, juries don’t truly believe the parents are responsible.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Rebecca knew she was being rude. It wasn’t Keith’s fault that the appeal had gone the wrong way. He’d done everything he could for the Essigs—pro bono. But at the end of the day, her parents were no better off than they’d been before he’d taken their case.
“Honey, you still have your parents. Surely that’s something to be thankful for.”
“I tell you what—I’ll ask them how grateful they are in forty years when they’re dying alone on cots in the prison infirmary.” She slammed the phone back into its cradle. Then slammed it again, for good measure.
Biting back a scream of frustration, Rebecca let her forehead thump against the glass side of the phone booth. She took several deep breaths. Then she stood up straight, hiked her backpack higher on her shoulders and stepped out of the booth.
Moving as fast as she could without actually running, Rebecca Essig took the next left, then walked three-quarters of a mile from the gas station to the public library. By the time she pushed open the heavy double doors, she’d begun to sweat, in spite of the cool fall day.
She made her way across the main room, heedless of the squeaking of her sneakers against the slick granite, and dropped her bag on the floor next to the information desk.
“How can I help you?” The woman who looked up from her novel wore her dark brown hair pulled back in a bun so severe it tugged on the corners of her eyes.
Rebecca crossed her arms on top of the high counter. “I need to see everything you have about changelings. About how a person could get one back.”
Delilah
“Is that it?” Zyanya asked, staring at the nondescript two-story building at the end of the street, and I nodded from the front passenger’s seat. Which had been unofficially labeled as mine, both because it was the easiest for me to get in and out of and because I was the most human looking of us, thus the least likely to be noticed through the windshield or the transparent front windows.
Poor Eryx always had to sit on the floor in the cargo area, in the very back. There was nothing a hat or a pair of sunglasses could do to disguise a bull’s head.
“There’s a parking lot around back,” Gallagher said from the bench seat behind me. Claudio sat on his left, which left the third row open for Miri and Lala. Assuming our mission was successful.
Zyanya drove past the lab, then took us around the block, where she pulled into the lot from an adjacent street and parked on the last row. We were a little early, because we wanted to see the lab’s weekend employees leave. And any night-shift security or custodial employees arrive.
“Are there cameras?” Claudio leaned forward to study the back of the building through the windshield. At his feet sat a backpack stuffed with supplies we—or the captured oracles—might need.
“Obviously we haven’t been inside, but there’s one by the main entrance, and one out back, aimed at the dumpster,” Gallagher told him.
“That’s what the paint’s for.” I held up the spray bottle of Midnight Madness.
We waited, watching the building until the lights went off and a couple of people left through the back door and got into cars near the front of the lot. A few minutes later, a third man in a white coat came out. He tossed a large trash bag into the bin, then got into his car and drove away without even a glance in our direction.
When the last of the light had faded from the western horizon and the parking lot lights had come on, Zyanya restarted the van and drove across the lot, where she pulled into the space closest to the dumpster, using it to block us from sight of the camera over the back door.
I handed Gallagher the can of black spray paint, and he got out of the van. Within two steps, he’d blended in with the darkness so well that I could no longer see him.
