Deadfall (12 page)

THE PARK IS
closed, the gates locked. You had to climb onto a Dumpster to get over the fence. From the top of the playground there’s a good view of the corner. You sit there, hidden behind a plastic slide, and watch.

It only takes a few minutes before someone else approaches. A man, about six two, wearing a crisp blue button-down. His hair is graying at the temples. He doesn’t look like the type who’d be in this neighborhood at one in the morning. He goes over to the newspaper stand on the corner of First Avenue. He grabs a free paper and heads north up the block.

You check the time on your phone. 1:02
A
.
M
. He’s the fifth person since you got there. It wasn’t obvious at first. You were watching the opposite corner, scanning the restaurants and bars to see if there were signs of people going into one specific place. But it was a green plastic newspaper stand
that people kept coming back to.
Free Press
is written on the side. One by one, they took a paper and headed north.

When the man is gone you scan the street, waiting to see if anyone else is approaching.

You keep your head down as you approach the newsstand. Through the plastic front you can see the stack of papers. You pull the top one out and take off in the opposite direction from the others, cutting west down First Street, where the crowds thin out.

You press yourself into a nearby doorway, fold open the newssheet, and look over the stories to see if there’s any decipherable code. A thick white card falls out, fluttering down across your sneakers. It looks blank at first, but when you hold it in the streetlight you can see there’s something written on it, glossy letters visible only when you turn it back and forth, side to side.

275 W 12

You pull the phone from your pocket. 1:08
A
.
M
. You start to walk, keeping close to the buildings, knowing you don’t have much time. It’s almost 1:11
A
.
M
.

The meeting is about to start.

THE WINDOWS OF
the town house at 275 West Twelfth Street are lit up. You are a few doors down, hidden in the hedge of another immaculately kept town house. This is nicer than any other neighborhood you’ve walked through. You almost got lost in the maze of streets.

Another woman comes up the block. She’s wearing running pants, sneakers, and a baseball cap, the brim curled so that it covers her eyes. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail. She climbs the front stairs and disappears into the house. It doesn’t seem like the doors are locked.

She’s the seventh person you’ve seen go in. You change your position, moving closer to the hedge and angling yourself so that you can see through the front windows. Standing in the foyer is a man who looks like a butler. He hands the woman something—some article of clothing. When she puts
it on, you smile. Her form is silhouetted perfectly through the glass. She’s wearing a short gold jacket with an enormous hood. The fabric comes down over her forehead, casting her face in shadow.

The hunters protect their identities from one another and you will be safe.

As a dozen more people, all in different states of dress, enter the building and are given their jackets, you realize your luck. It’s starting to feel plausible that you might be able to pass as one of them, even in your jeans and sweatshirt. The sleeves would come down past your wrist, covering your tattoo, but you have your bracelet on just in case.

It’s nearly two
A
.
M
. by the time the steady flow of people slows, then stops. This seems like your chance.

You walk toward the town house, keeping your head down in case cameras are watching. You hold your breath until you are up the stairs and past the first set of doors. It’s pitch-black inside, and the butler is gone—everyone else has entered at this point. Where he stood, a sign is posted, along with a neatly stacked pile of short hooded jackets.
APPROPRIATE ATTIRE REQUIRED PAST THIS POINT
.

You reach for one and pull it on, making sure the hood comes low enough to conceal your face. You can hear people on the second floor. Someone is playing the piano.

Upstairs, more than forty people are gathered in a large room, all in hoods. Your eyes immediately go to their pants
and shoes, making sure nothing gives you away. There are shiny loafers and beige heels, running shoes and even sandals. Jeans and black slacks, track pants and leggings. There’s nothing that separates you from anyone else.

The parlor is immaculate, with a high, curved ceiling and a massive marble fireplace. One wall is covered by a painting nearly ten feet high. A table is set up with delicate hors d’oeuvres, though no one is eating. Most people are facing a man in the far corner. The piano music quiets.

“Tonight we celebrate one of the greatest feats in our organization’s history,” the man says. “The successful transition to the newest stage of our game: the Migration.” He stands beside a long leather couch, where three people are seated. You can tell by their shoes that one is a woman. “IX has had the honor of making the first kill. An impressive feat, even for a hunter who has been going to the island for over ten years, who just this summer had seven kills.”

It takes you a moment to register his meaning—he’s referring to a hunter by a number. The person in front of you turns around, leaning in so you can just see his lips in shadow. “Last summer I only had two. I guess there’s always room for improvement.” He chuckles.

“XXV also had a kill, which was the Falcon. Some of you encountered him on the island last month. An enviable prize, everyone can agree.” Then the man turns, gesturing to the hunter at the far end of the couch. “As you all have
seen by now, the challenges of killing in the city—this, or any other—have been formidable. XLII has claimed one of our most challenging prizes in New York. Using another target as bait, XLII found the Python online, then lured him out of hiding. He killed the Python in broad daylight, in the middle of a crowded park. We honor his commitment to the hunt and to our organization.”

The crowded park. The Python . . . Connor. He’s talking about Connor.

“And finally,” the man continues, and his tone sounds lighter, almost laughing. “I have the awkward responsibility of awarding myself tonight. Let the record stand that the fourth medallion is awarded to I, for the Hare.”

The three hunters come forward, and the man hands them each a gold medallion, saving the fourth for himself. You look closely at the speaker, trying to learn what you can about him. Whoever he is, he’s obviously important—it didn’t escape you that he goes by the number one. He’s the first. He might run AAE, might even be “Cal,” the leader that Reynolds mentioned.

Each medal has an animal engraved into the back, and they shine in the low light. When he passes one to XLII, the man gives the crowd a nod. There are scattered claps, a few bows for the man who killed Connor.

“Now let us recite the vows that bind us together,” the leader says.

A few of the hunters bow their heads, and they all begin to speak as one. You shift closer to the wall, and mumble under your breath, hoping to hide the fact that you don’t know the words.

“Life is only fully lived when one knows death. Together we track, we fight, we kill. We keep the confidence of our brothers and sisters, seeking death before betrayal. We alone have gone to the island, and the island has changed us. We will carry these secrets to our end
.
”

The words hold you in place. Their voices are so even and monotone that they fill the room like a low, ringing bell. It takes you a moment to register that they’ve finished the ceremony, and the crowd has broken apart. Some of the hunters chat as they pluck food off trays.

You move toward the man who led the vow, noticing the faint outline of the wallet in the back pocket of his gray pants. It’s just below the edge of the jacket. The leader is talking to the hunter who killed Connor, his hand on his arm. “I have contacts there. The evidence goes missing, or there’s a paperwork mix-up. Nothing to worry about.”

As you get closer, you position yourself the way Rafe showed you, moving behind the man, your right hand out at your side. Rafe made it look easy, two fingers slipping in and out of the pocket. You practiced it a dozen times that night on the train, and all but once, Rafe caught your wrist as you reached for his wallet. You tell yourself that you can do it now. You have to.

You take two steps toward the food table, and rest your hand on the man’s back as you brush past him. Then you use your thumb to gently open the pocket and pull out the billfold with two fingers. He steps backward. You almost stumble, knocked off balance, but when you walk away his money clip rests in your hand.

THE BATHROOM IS
all white marble, the lock a heavy gold. You drop the silver money clip on the edge of the sink and let the hood fall back, wisps of your black hair clinging to your cheeks and forehead. You take a breath, meeting your gaze in the mirror. He didn’t feel you take it and he hasn’t noticed it’s gone. If he had, he would be after you already.

You lay out the cash—seven hundred dollars in all. There’s also a black American Express card with the name Theodore Cross, but that’s it. You turn the clip over in your hand, looking for anything else. No license. No address.

Someone knocks on the door and you grab the money, fumbling to get it back in the clip. You’re aware of the small window on the other end of the bathroom—no more than two feet high and four feet long, a stained-glass mosaic. If you have to, you might be able to go out that way. You pull
on the hood, then hide the money clip in the front of your waistband.

When you unlock the door you pass a tall man holding a glass of amber liquid. He nods at you from inside his hood and takes your place in the bathroom, the door closing shut behind him.

You survey the room, trying to find the man you stole from. He’s moved from his spot in the corner, and it’s almost impossible to tell one person from the next in their jackets and hoods. Instead you look at pants and shoes, trying to remember what he was wearing. You’re moving through the crowd when a woman notices you. “Did you lose something?” she asks, following your gaze to the floor.

“No, I’m fine,” you say. When you raise your head you can tell she’s taking you in, and you wonder if she could possibly recognize you beneath the hood. They’ve all studied photographs of you—could they know you just by your height, your build?

Suddenly you spot him behind her—the same gray pants, with a slight sheen to them. You shift away before she can say anything else. Theodore Cross . . . Hunter I. You push past him, slipping the clip back into his pocket, and start toward the door.

“Excuse me,” someone says behind you. The room is loud enough that you’re not certain she’s talking to you. But then she repeats it. She reaches for your arm but you keep moving, pressing between two laughing men.

“I’m talking to you. What did you just do?”

It’s the woman from before. She must’ve noticed you putting the clip back into Cross’s pocket. “I’m sorry,” you say, “I don’t know what you mean.”

You keep your voice even. Then you shrug, just the slightest bit, feigning confusion. She’s about to say something else, but you’ve already turned away. You’re down the staircase and gone before she can understand what she’s just seen.

THEO STARES AT
the money clip on his dresser. He hasn’t touched it since he got back from the ceremony late last night. He’s looked at it ten times in the past two hours. It was routine for him, always. No license. The Amex, for emergency purposes only, sandwiched in the center of the bills. Is he losing his mind? Or did someone move it?

The card is now on the outside, right under the clip. He doesn’t think he’s ever put it that way. It’s just out of habit, but it looks odd now . . . wrong. He turns it over in his hands, trying not to overthink it. The woman—XXVIII—said she saw someone leave the location early. Someone she thought wasn’t supposed to be there. But can he trust what she saw?

He puts the clip in his back pocket and steps out of the dressing room. Helene is standing by her jewelry box, putting on her earrings. Her dress is unzipped, exposing the back of her
bra. “You look exhausted,” she says. “You shouldn’t have taken the red-eye last night. Next time just stay in San Francisco. Those flights always take so much out of you.”

He stands behind her and zips her up. His hands rest on her shoulders as she puts on her other earring. “You’re right; next time I won’t.”

“Gene and Nora are looking forward to seeing you,” she says. “It’s good of you to go. Gene hasn’t been doing well.”

It’s hard to think of Gene right now. His gaunt frame, his slow, shuffling walk. It seems like he is taking forever to die. Theo hates watching it. Gene, college friend, the godfather to their daughter, Alana. He stares at Theo with that sick, hollow-looking stare and it’s like he’s speaking the words,
Someday, this will be you.

“Yes, it’ll be good to see him,” Theo says.

Helene retreats into the dressing room for the gold sweater she always wears with that dress. Theo’s hand goes to the pocket of his pants. Back to the money clip.

XXVIII had said the woman she saw at the ceremony was average height. Sneakers and jeans underneath the jacket. Dark eyes. He wonders if he’s been foolish. They have warned him about the girl, about Blackbird. Wasn’t she the one who’d threatened Reynolds? Who’d turned her Watcher? Theo had assumed she’d be dead by now, but she persists, despite everything. She’s working with the other target—that boy. She’s found other prey from the island.

It seems unlikely that anyone would believe her if they tried to go to the police. They don’t have much of a case. But with that slipup in Morningside Park . . . that unfortunate
mistake
. Theo hates that he had to award that fool a medallion for such a careless kill. Things are uncertain now.

He pulls the clip from the back of his pants and turns it over, staring at the credit card on the outside of the bills.

“Theo? Are you all right?” Helene hovers in the doorway.

“Yes, I’m fine now,” Theo says, slipping the clip back into his pocket.