Manic, wide-eyed, breathing too hard, she stood over the kitchen sink, the folder in her hands. Inside she read the pages: the arrest record, fingerprints, the facing and profile mug shots of a sullen teenager with shoulder- length, too-teased red hair, eyeliner blacking her eyes, and the strap of a camisole hanging off her shoulder. God, she looked awful. Mug shots always looked terrible, but this one seemed to draw out the ugliness that had lived inside that girl—a sort of disheveled fatalism. Appleton had arrested her at West Plaza the morning after the incident, threatening her with charges of conspiracy, intent to commit mayhem, and the like. Ultimately not charged, not tried. Released into the custody of Warren and Suzanne West, who promised that this sort of thing wouldn’t happen again. As if they’d had the authority to make that promise.
Celia lit a match.
It didn’t mean anything. People already knew. Just because the physical file didn’t exist anymore, wouldn’t make their knowledge disappear.
But this wasn’t for other people, this was for her. This was an exorcism.
She touched the match to all four corners of the open folder, then touched it to as many places in the middle as she could before the flame burned to her fingers. She dropped the whole mess into the sink. The crisp, eight- years’ aged paper crackled, blackened, and flames swelled over it. The photograph curled and melted.
She opened the windows, turned on a fan. The smoke poured up, black and sour. It flowed out the window above the sink, dissipated, and melted into the sky.
Let it go. Let it all blow away.
TWENTY-FOUR
THE city had become as taut as a drawn bow string, quivering, more than ready for release. People hurried on the streets, waiting for bombs to explode or runaway buses to turn the next corner. Restaurants shut down, no one was shopping. People seemed content to stay indoors, watching TV, waiting for the next big attack.
She couldn’t help but think that all these petty little crimes and attacks were merely means to an end, to hold the city in thrall to terror. And here they were. Even the Destructor had never been so calculating.
It was quick work with a phone book and Internet connection to find the location of Janet Travers, the point where the two threads of inquiry Celia had been following matched up.
Travers had an apartment at an assisted living community in a quiet, middle-class neighborhood at the edge of town, the kind with wide, tree-lined streets and signs that warned of children playing. The retirement community had a brick, neocolonial apartment building and scattered bungalows, all enclosed within walled gardens, isolated, quiet and pretty.
Celia signed in with the receptionist. “Let me call up to her room and see if she’s taking visitors. Celia, you said?”
“Yes. She won’t know me, but it’s very important I see her. I have news about her son.”
“I didn’t know she had a son,” the receptionist said as she dialed a number on her phone.
Celia smiled innocently.
The receptionist spoke on the phone for several moments, passing along the message. Celia was sure that Janet would refuse to talk to her.
Then the receptionist covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “Would it be all right if she met you in the atrium?”
“Yes, of course, that’d be fine.”
“She’ll be down in a few minutes. You can wait for her, it’s just at the end of the hallway.”
Celia made her way to the atrium. The large glass room was filled with patio furniture, wicker tables, and chairs with big soft cushions. Potted trees and vines flourished, and birdsong chirped here and there. Celia suspected it was a recording. A few people played cards at a table across the way.
She waited long enough to think that Janet had changed her mind. A woman arrived then, her expression taut, frowning. She scanned the room until her gaze found Celia, who was out of place here. Celia smiled in what she hoped was an encouraging manner.
The woman’s shoulders were slightly stooped, but she managed to hold herself elegantly, her chin up. Her hair was short, permed, perfectly arranged, and she wore a fashionable blouse and trousers with confidence. She’d have looked at home anywhere. Whatever had happened to this woman in her life, she’d held on to her dignity.
Celia went to her and offered her hand. “Ms. Travers? I’m Celia West. Thank you for meeting with me.”
Janet didn’t shake her hand. “What do you want with me?”
Celia hadn’t expected this to be easy. “I just want to ask a few questions. I don’t want to cause any trouble, but I’ve got a mystery that I really need help solving, and you may be the one to do it.”
“Then why bring up a son? Because I don’t know anything about that.”
Wincing, Celia said, “Can we sit down?” She gestured to a secluded set of wicker chairs. Reluctantly, Janet joined her there.
“I originally found your name on a payroll report for West Corp. You worked at the Leyden Industrial Park building. The laboratory there was shut down after an accident. I want to know what happened.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Yes. But you must remember something. Simon Sito worked there—”
“I don’t want to hear anything about him.”
“I know this must be difficult.”
“Do you? Then tell me why you mentioned a son. I wouldn’t have agreed to talk with you if you hadn’t.”
She wondered if the old woman realized who Celia was.
“I know who the father was. I assure you, I learned by accident. It’s a long story, but I only uncovered the adoption records after I had suspicions.”
The tension in Janet’s face seemed to melt, as if now that the secret was out, she could stop working so hard to hide it. As if she knew this moment had always been inevitable, but not as terrible as she’d envisioned. She rubbed her face with a bony, trembling hand.
“I should have ended the pregnancy,” Janet said. “I saw what he turned into, and I just kept thinking how I let his genes loose in the world. That evil—” Celia didn’t even have to say the name. Janet knew who she was talking about.
“Did he start out evil? Was he always like he is now? You must have seen something in him, back then.”
“No, no. He was … it was a long time ago. My memory of him is colored, I’m sure. But he was driven, and I admired him.”
A lost love? A quick fling? Celia couldn’t guess what they’d been to each other.
“Ms. Travers, I’m not here about your son, or Sito, or your relationship with him. I learned about all that by accident. But you wouldn’t talk to me when I called you a few days ago. I’m sorry if I tricked you into talking with me, but I’m running out of leads. What I really want to know is what was going on at the Leyden laboratory. Anything you can remember, no matter how insignificant, would be helpful. I’d appreciate it.”
The woman gathered herself, pursing her lips and straightening as much as she could. Her hands lay in her lap, clenched around each other.
“That day, the day of the accident, was the first major test of the equipment.”
“Equipment? What kind of equipment?”
Janet shook her head. “The project involved using radiation as a treatment for mental illness. A generator was supposed to create a specific kind of radiation. I’m afraid I don’t know any more than that. I was a technician; I prepared tissue samples and microscope slides, that was all.
“The equipment … burst, I think. It overheated, or a power surge overloaded it. I don’t think anyone ever learned what exactly happened. It was very embarrassing for Dr. Sito, because Mr. West was there observing —”
“Mr. West. Jacob West?”
“Yes— Wait a moment. Celia West. Are you related to him?”
“He was my grandfather,” Celia said. She could see the light of recognition in Janet’s eyes. Oh,
