He selected pages from different files and laid them side by side, fussed with them, squared them up on his desk. Put them together and they said one thing. He gnawed at his lower lip and remembered conversations and evidence he'd seen, that said another.
Gloves made his hands clumsy, made separating sheets of paper a royal pain. He didn't know whether possession of these files was a felony. Given Ben's habits, he figured he'd better assume the worst.
He sorted the sheets back into their proper piles and proper order, squared them up again, and slid them into a large manila envelope. One fresh from the middle of the box, no fingerprints except maybe from some packaging line in Alabama. He did not lick the flap, used a sponge to moisten the glue instead, no DNA traces. And then he stared out the window of his dorm room again, into misty evening twilight and fall trees and speculations.
Yeah, Ben's probably right. As far as he goes. She killed them. Do I care? How many men has he killed? I killed a man myself. The slimeball would have killed me, stopped me from saving Mouse and Ellie.
He kept coming back to that, that some people deserved to die. He remembered those scars in her armpit. He remembered her face when some damn fool used a burning cigarette as a pointer, shoved it under her nose during an shouting match over smoking in the Student Union, a smoke-free building. Flashing instants of terror and rage, then cold slitted eyes memorizing the asshole's face. He wouldn't want to be on the other end of that look.
That DHS file, the Sweeneys. He'd done some poking on his own, cracking their files rather than Jane's, end run on the precise wording of his promise to her. They'd been dropped from the state's foster care program, file closed a couple of years before their murders. The official reason was they'd refused to quit smoking. A single written warning, and then they were out on their butts within a week, one kid taken from their house.
Gary remembered things Aunt Alice had said, why she'd slid right through the court hearings as guardian for him, for Ellie, for Mouse. In any case where the will named a guardian for orphans, DHS never even showed up. They didn't have enough foster homes for the cases they had to cover, abuse and abandonment and such.
But they'd thrown the Sweeneys away like a live grenade. He'd like to talk to a caseworker or two about that, private and off the record. Some things they might suspect but wouldn't put in writing. Too much chance of lawsuits and really nasty coverage on the local evening news. There'd been a case a year or so ago, where a foster mother killed a child . . .
He stirred the trackball on his computer, waking up the screen and then his campus email account. Still no answer from her, and he ignored another message from a remailer alias of Ben's. Whatever his father wanted, Gary needed more time to think. And do. Promises to keep, miles to go, that sort of thing.
He checked his tripwire and firewall programs, activated a stealth routine that would tell him if anyone poked at his computer while he was gone, and shut the system down. He slid the envelope inside a fresh plastic bag before tucking it into his backpack — that would minimize any collection of hair or lint or shreds of cloth for the forensics lab if things went wrong. And he might have to leave the files out in the rain. Then he shrugged into his gray jacket, the one that turned him into a shadow within shadows. Gathered bits of bent metal scrap and flat spring steel from five different jumbles of tools and spare parts, turning junk into a set of picklocks. Tucked Ben's worn mini-flashlight into his pants pocket after a quick check of the batteries.
Outside, autumn chill and drizzle rode a stiff breeze. Gloves looked natural, and he could have added his gray watch cap without looking out of place. Caroline would be even better for this — her brown skin turned into natural camouflage at night. He'd just have to keep his face away from the light anytime he needed to hide.
Besides, he had the Morgan gift of quietly not being there, sort of a genetic version of the invisibility witchcraft that Caroline or Aunt Alice used. People kept trying to walk right through him if he didn't dodge.
Except for Jane. She'd noticed him and seemed drawn to him like iron to a magnet. Until that phone call, and his stupid blurted mention of the cops.
Fifteen minutes later, he stood at the end of a twisty alley and studied shadows — sour-smelling shadows with an overtone of used diaper. He wrinkled his nose. The city only collected trash once a week, and some of the commercial firms waited longer between pickups. They didn't empty the bins until they got full, no matter how rank they turned. There was a lot to be said for colder weather. Refrigerate the garbage.
He flowed from shadow to shadow, feet searching ahead before he shifted his balance, wary of loud trash or tripping. So far, everything matched his daytime memories. Including the scratch of rat claws leaving in a hurry. Jane had shrugged her shoulders and tossed off a comment about having had worse neighbors than rats, some places that she'd lived. Then said they made a decent stew.
One apartment in the converted house next to hers held a yappy dog who took offense every time footsteps passed by. She'd also mentioned the starring role dogs held in some Asian cuisine. He never could tell if she was joking.
Gary slipped past the lighted windows and around the corner without rousing even a yip — apparently
