Someone who didn’t eat the same thing she had. Someone who practically forced her to eat, someone who didn’t want to let her leave. Someone she’d been questioning.
Someone who apparently wanted her dead, too. A heavy dose of Vapes—strong enough to leave an aftertaste in a dish as highly flavored as that one—could stop a person’s heart, flood their lungs with fluid, even without adding four Cepts to the mix. And a little speed. And a Panda to keep the speed from making her too jittery.
At the very least she was going to be monumentally fucked up if she didn’t manage to get rid of them, and that would be almost as bad as dying, at least if someone noticed and she ended up in the hospital. The second they did a drug test on her they’d see the levels of narcotic in her system, and game fucking over.
In desperation she scrabbled through her bag. Trying to be sick wasn’t something she normally did; usually it was the opposite, thanks to the occasional narco-nausea. So she had plenty of stuff to counteract that. But to induce vomiting …
To induce vomiting maybe she could just think about the fact that she was on her knees in what was essentially a public bathroom, the place bacteria went to play, and how she was like a fresh new toy for them to jump all over. How many of them did she breathe in every time she inhaled, how many of them would hide on her skin, in her hair?
Or she could remember the last time she’d been in a public bathroom before this case, five weeks or so ago, the night she’d seen Terrible at Chuck’s and run away to hide in the bathroom and he hadn’t let her. He’d followed her, kissed her, picked her up, and she hadn’t been able to get her jeans off fast enough and she’d thought the door might break from him pounding into her so hard against it, and a crowd had formed outside and she hadn’t cared and neither had he. That night when she had so much hope, that night when he’d come for her later and saved her life. The night she’d put her hands on his shoulders, looked into his eyes, and told him she loved him.
That did it. Up came the rice, up came everything else. Disgusting but necessary. Too bad that with it came the pain, the tears she’d managed to hold at bay for the last two days. She didn’t know how she’d managed it—lots of chemicals, mainly—but she had, and now it was too late.
Her watch said two-thirty. Five minutes. She could give herself five minutes to sit there blubbering like a pussy, and then she’d take her pills, bump up off her hairpin, leave the stall, rinse her face with cold water, and get the hell out of the building. That sounded like an awesome plan, in fact.
“Chess?” A woman’s voice, tentative and soft. Great—a witness.
Chess staggered to her feet, wiping her streaming eyes with her sleeve. Flushed the toilet again to hide the sound of her sniffles. “Yeah?”
“It’s me, Monica. Are you okay?”
Chess nodded, before realizing that—duh—Monica couldn’t see her. Lucky, that. She probably looked like some sort of raccoon-eyed tomato. And no faucet. “I’m fine. Why?”
“You just seemed like you were in an awful hurry, like maybe something had upset you? I know we don’t know each other very well, but … I thought maybe I could help.”
Right. Help. It would take a hell of a lot more than one frizzy-haired woman with the fashion sense of a goat to help Chess.
“No, I just … well, I really had to go.” Chess forced a laugh. A humiliating and ridiculous excuse, but what the hell else was she supposed to say? She was in a bathroom stall, after all. She couldn’t very well claim she’d had to make an important phone call.
She opened her water bottle, quickly soaked a wad of toilet paper with it, and swabbed at her eyes. That was gross, too. Public restroom toilet paper, sandpapery and rough, and quite possibly pre-gunked with all sorts of horrible infectious shit; her eyes would probably start oozing pus within twenty-four hours.
“Oh, okay.” But Monica didn’t leave.
Chess grabbed four more Cepts, knocked them back, and opened the stall door. Monica stood leaning against the sink, her arms folded, looking pensively at the ceiling. “You seem to be talking to Beulah a lot,” she said.
Chess shrugged.
“I’m kind of surprised, really. You know how she feels about the Church.”
What was her point? Chess looked at her, maybe a bit more carefully than she needed to, but nothing in Monica’s eyes or demeanor indicated any sort of ulterior motive, or anything else. “Yeah, I know. It’s not like it’s an unusual attitude here.”
“Yeah, but … can I be honest with you? Some people think Beulah’s intentions here aren’t really honorable. You know about her family, right?”
The faucet was generic, looked like every other public restroom faucet in the world. Chess pretended it fascinated her. Did Monica not know about Lex, about the kiss?
Apparently not. “Her father is a, well, a criminal. And some people—not me, but some people—think maybe she’s using the students to launder money or something for him, something to do with charitable donations, I don’t know. I’m not an accountant. But … it makes me uncomfortable, the way she’s normally only here for a few hours every week and now all of a sudden she’s here all day, every day.”
“A few hours a week?”
Monica nodded. “Before, she’d come in at two on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, stay until school let out, and maybe an hour after, talking to parents or students or administrators, you know, settling disputes or whatever it is she does. But ever since just before the haunting started, she’s been here … well, like I said, all the time.”
Because it was interesting, Beulah had said. But how interesting could it really be? What the hell was Beulah doing there, exactly?
Not that Chess trusted Monica or believed everything she was saying, or rather implying. But she didn’t trust Beulah, either, especially not after the drugs in her food. Beulah said she’d gotten it from a big batch Laurie brought in; Chess couldn’t imagine it had all been dosed, so that had to be just for her.
And right after Chess had asked about Chelsea. Just like that horrible tea had come right after Chess had escaped from the trunk, and Beulah had let her into the theater that day. Had anyone else even known she was in the theater then?
“Huh,” she said, because Monica seemed to expect an answer. “Well, thanks for letting me know.”
“I just want to help. We all do, you know. Wen was just saying yesterday how much he hopes things get worked out soon. He hates thinking of the kids being in danger here, you know. And he’s not crazy about Beulah’s father trying to—well, getting the students involved in things they shouldn’t be.”
Duh. That reminded her. “Hey, I haven’t seen Mrs. Li around. Do you know where she is?”
“She’s not doing very well, not after Jia … you know, she and Beulah were rather close to Jia, it seemed like. I guess Beulah’s told you all about that, about how she was really taking Jia under her wing. Jia and Vernal and all of those kids, they worked for her father, I guess, too.”
Chess hadn’t been sick quite fast enough. Monica’s face blurred for a second, split in two, then snapped back into place; something was hitting her bloodstream, something she didn’t deliberately put there. Shit, she needed that bump. Her tongue tingled; it was not comfortable or pleasant.
Monica glanced at her watch. “Anyway. Sorry for keeping you. I just wanted to see if you were okay, really, and let you know to be careful around Beulah. I’m sure you know that already, though.”
Yeah. Chess knew that.
“And if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask me, please. Okay? Almost everything that happens in this school passes right before my desk, so …”
“Thanks, Monica.” Two forty-five. If Monica left now, Chess could still bump up and get out of the building before the bell rang.
Thankfully, Monica did just that. With a smile and a confident “Any time,” she slipped out of the room.
Chess threw herself back into the stall, dug around for the hairpin she used; it had a little divot in the cente
r and was slimmer than a key, so she preferred it. Hell, if she had more time she’d cut herself a line on the toilet paper dispenser, but she didn’t. Not only was the bell about to ring, but her head grew fuzzier every second.
Damn that Beulah! It had to be her who’d dosed the food. Who else could it have been?
No way was Beulah really Chelsea Mueller or anything. Beulah was exactly who she said she was. But if Slobag had some sort of plan with his witch, if Chelsea and his witch were working together … if he and his witch had some sort of plan, maybe, to remove Chess from the picture …
Beulah would be perfectly placed to help with that. It could be a perfect one-two punch, couldn’t it? Chelsea got what she wanted—which was apparently her cousin back—and Slobag got what he wanted, which was Chess gone. It wasn’t even a very complicated sort of conspiracy or anything; all it would require would be an introduction, a frank chat about what everyone hoped to gain.
And when Aros was assigned the case, they got rid of him. Because Chess was much easier to eliminate if she was forced to spend time on this side of town, where she wasn’t protected.
She sucked back three bumps, chasing them with a couple of drops of water. Much better. Her vision still wanted to go haywire but some of the clouds in her head lifted, at least the ones not forming at the idea of a bunch of people planning her death.
They lifted enough for her to hear the bathroom door sneak open. As fast as she could she wiped at her nose, resealed her baggie and tucked it back into her pillbox, licked the hairpin and put it away as well. Being caught standing in the toilet stall with a bag full of speed and a hair slide dusted white might not be too good for her.
She waited for someone to speak. No one did. Her heart started pounding, but whether that was from the kick she’d just snorted or from fear, she didn’t know. Didn’t necessarily want to know.
What she did know was that someone else was in that bathroom, and that someone did not want to be heard. Okay. She slid her knife out of her pocket; she’d have to click it open at the same time as she opened the door, otherwise she’d alert whomever it was that she knew they were there.
The handle of the toilet, cold and slightly damp. She shoved it down.
The sound masked her dropping her bag. Just as she’d planned, she flung open the door, clicked the button on her knife, her left hand reaching out to grab—
Beulah. Beulah, who screamed and jumped back; not a bad actress, that one. “Shit! What the fuck, Chess?”
“I’m— What are you doing?”
“I came to see if you were okay. Monica said you were in here.”
For a second Chess let herself imagine going ahead and stabbing Beulah. Just sinking her knife into Beulah’s arm or something—not somewhere fatal, just somewhere painful—and paying her back.
She couldn’t, though. Of course she couldn’t. Instead she sighed, clicked her knife back, and shoved it into her pocket. “You scared me.”
“Obviously.” Beulah’s eyes followed the movement, stayed on Chess’s pocket like she thought the knife would jump at her on its own.
“Well, you didn’t say anything, what was I supposed to think?”
“That I was swallowing the Coke I’d just drank, maybe? Sheesh. Anyway. You’re fine, that’s all I needed to know.” She turned and swept back out of the room, shooting one more annoyed look over her shoulder before the door closed.
Yeah. Chess was sure that whether she was fine was all Beulah needed to know.
She just wasn’t sure what the woman would pull to make sure she wasn’t fine next time.
Lex waited for her in the parking lot. Fuck! Another of Slobag’s genetic leavings, when she wanted to see if Chelsea’s information had come in at the Church yet.
“Hey, Tulip.” He leaned against her car, crossed his ankles with his arms folded. “Figured I’d get some eats, me, maybe you come along.”
Ugh. “No, thanks.”
“Aw, c’mon. Figure you got an owes, seein as how they talking to you now, aye? Alls I’m wanting is company.” He raised his eyebrows. “Lessin you got aught else you wanna give me. Always happy to do me some negotiations.”
That was tempting. She could let him into her car, drive to his place, climb into his bed with him and spend the afternoon there. It would be so fucking good to lose herself in something right then, and she had no doubt she’d be able to. Lex never disappointed.
But she couldn’t, and she knew it even before she thought of what a bad idea going to Slobag’s house would be when he might have another witch there planning her death. She couldn’t because she couldn’t stand the thought of someone else, someone not Terrible, touching her, kissing her; the thought made her body grow cold even with the jittery warmth of the speed and Cepts in her system.
Letting Lex have her again, letting anyone else have her, would mean fully admitting to herself that she and Terrible were finished, that he didn’t want her anymore. She wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.
Lex must have seen it. “Eats still on the table, too. Come on along, I pay an all.”
“Who is your father’s witch? What the hell does he need a witch for?” The words slipped out, driven by drugs and irritation, but once they escaped into the air she found she was glad they had. She wanted an answer, and she and Lex had never been much for mincing words, not with each other.
“What?”
“Who is his witch, why does he need a witch?”
“Ain’t got that knowledge, Tulip. Only know—after that dame’s found, dig, not before—he got heself one.”
She inspected him. He looked innocent enough, but then he always did. “I think he might be trying to kill me.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Why the fuck he wanna do that one? Ain’t liking you much, he ain’t, but ain’t can see him tryin that. Never gave me any say on it.”
“Maybe he wouldn’t.”
“Ain’t can say what he do and don’t give me. Only know he ain’t givin me any whys on what you sayin. And never gave me any on you.”
“And the pipe room? Any other buildings he might be planning to blow up?”
He shrugged. Right. He didn’t know much about the witch, but he sure as fuck knew about that fire. Not a surprise. “Now you comin for eats or nay? Causen I got me some hungry, lessin you want me for ought else, iffen you dig.”
In spite of herself she smiled. A little. “Let me call the Church really quick first.”
She was still hungry after all. And with her mind still buzzing oddly and her vision wavering just a bit, she didn’t particularly want to drive, didn’t particularly want to be alone.
Didn’t particularly want to be with Lex, either, but she didn’t have any other options, did she.
The phone in Elder Griffin’s office rang four times before he picked it up, sounding a little breathless. “Cesaria,” he said, cutting off her hi-how-are-yous. “Cesaria, we have a situation. With your case.”
Uh-oh. “What? Did I do something—”
“Oh, no, no, my dear. But I’m afraid … I must tell you, the DNA test results came in today on the body from Aros’s apartment.”
Double uh-oh. He’d said “the body,” not “Aros’s body.” Her stomach hollowed out.
Sure enough, he took a deep breath—audible even over the phone—and said, “The body found in that apartment was not Aros. ‘Twas a man named Bill Pritchard. His DNA is on file from an arrest in his second school years, just some mild vandalism. But mild vandalism at the Mercy Lewis school.”
Pritchard. Bill Pritchard. Why did that name sound familiar?
“Let me guess,” she replied. “He was at school in 2000 or so, right? 2001? Right after the school opened.”
“Yes. How did thou know?”
Fucking hell. Another dead body around Lucy McShane. And this one may have been directly related to her; every chance in the world existed that her ghost had killed that Bill person herself. The bright sunshine dimmed. Why was she certain she’d heard th
at name before? “Just a guess. It’s when the suicide in my case happened, so … I thought they might be related.”
“Ah.” Pause. “Are you coming in? I know thee wanted to look at Aros’s cabin, and I do believe ‘tis more important now that we know he still lives.”
“Yeah.” She caught Lex’s eye, shrugged an apology. Looked like she wouldn’t be having lunch with him after all. “I’ll be right there.”
Every Church office in every city had its own lab. Or technically, its own labs; DNA, disease, whatever other kinds of labs there were. Chess very rarely dealt with any of them, but if she did it was usually the DNA lab. Sometimes DNA was useful in cracking Debunking cases; people left DNA in the stupidest places. They licked envelopes, they shed hairs, they left fingernail clippings that grossed her out to touch.
That day, though, she bypassed the DNA lab and headed to the door for Forensics. It opened to her tentative knock, revealing a kind-looking older man. From beneath his pale-blue lab coat peeked white stockings and buckle shoes; an Elder, then, not just a doctor. Made sense, but she knew lots of Church offices had regular doctors working in their labs.
She tucked her right foot behind her ankle, dropped a quick curtsy. “Good morrow, sir. I’m Cesaria Putnam, I’m a Debunker.”
His silvery head dipped, returning her gesture. “I have heard of you, yes. How can I help you?”
He stepped back. Beyond him were rows of bodies covered in pale-blue sheets, like rafts floating down a river all facing the same direction. Beyond those were more tables, sinks and Bunsen burners and machinery she couldn’t identify.
She held up the Styrofoam container. “It’s rather private, sir. I believe … I believe this food may have been adulterated, that I was targeted by a subject of my current investigation.”
The Elder’s eyes widened. “Indeed? Shameful. Thou would like me to analyze the food, is that correct?” She nodded.
He glanced at the clock on the wall, and Chess took the opportunity to peek at the small ID badge pinned to the pocket of his coat. The cards weren’t necessary to access most of the building, but for the labs, the prisons … Gordon Lyle, the tag said. Of course—Elder Lyle. She’d heard of him. “I do believe I have time now, for something like this. Does thou care to stay here for fifteen minutes or so?”