"d.a.m.n it," he shouted, and his voice thundered down the hall.

"Miles, we have to get inside . . ."

"IT DOESN'T MATTER," he shouted at me. I saw a look in his eyes, one that I hadn't seen in years. It was the look he used to get in debate matches. The one that said I'm going to destroy you. Forget his size. Forget his ma.s.s. That look was why they called him The Beast.

"I warned you," he growled. "I told you not to mess with them. Didn't I? You didn't listen. G.o.dd.a.m.n it. What did you do?"

I started to explain, but he talked over me.

"You came here?"

I paused. I hadn't thought about that.

"You f.u.c.ked up and then you come here?"

"Miles, no one followed me."

"How do you know? You don't know anything."

He smacked the door with his ma.s.sive fist.

"I could send you away right now. You haven't told me anything. I could shut the door right now."

"Miles, I don't know what to do."

He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed his face.

"f.u.c.k," he said. "f.u.c.k." He slammed the wall and I felt it shudder.

He walked inside, but he left the door open. I followed him and locked us in.

He sat on the futon. The old thing groaned under him. He rubbed his face with both hands. He took several giant breaths. Some of the angry flush went out of his cheeks. When he spoke, he was calmer.

"It was Chance, right? You and Chance met up again."

I hesitated, then said yes.

He nodded a couple of times to himself. The heaving of his ma.s.sive shoulders slowed.

"It was a mistake, putting you two together. I thought I could control it. It's my mistake." He rubbed his neck. "It's okay," he said finally. "You're frightened. It's okay."

"No. I shouldn't have come."

He shook his head.

"I know you and I know Chance. I'm the connection. They would've put it together anyway."

"Miles," I said. "I'm really scared."

He looked at me, and the beast was gone from his eyes. They were calm again, philosopher's eyes--warm, wrinkled at the corners.

"Scared," he said, nodding. "That's a good start."

We called Chance. No answer.

"We need to go over there," I said. "He might be in trouble."

"Slow down. We need a plan first or you're going to get us all killed."

"We should call the cops," I said. "Tell them everything. It's the only way."

Miles smiled at me, and it was an annoying, patronizing smile.

"Jeremy, these aren't the kind of people you just report to the police. Or the FBI, MI6, Sydney Bristow, or Batman, for that matter."

"Then what?"

Miles picked up a Rubik's Cube from the table, smacked it down hard, then started pacing and fiddling with it. It was a nervous habit that went back to childhood. His dad had given him his first cube on his tenth birthday. Whenever he had a problem to solve, Miles would pick up the cube and start fidgeting with it.

It seemed so simple. Just nine squares on a side. In high school, Miles used to tell me there were forty-three quintillion possible configurations of the cube: forty-three followed by eighteen zeros. The Earth would fall into the sun before our fastest computers could find the best solution for every position.

It begged the question: how could something so simple get so screwed up?

He sighed.

"You're in a bad position. You know enough to be in trouble, but not enough to protect yourself."

"What does that mean?"

"Think about it. A secret can get you killed, but it can also save your life."

"You sound like a fortune cookie."

Miles glared at me. "You came to me."

"I know. I'm sorry. But you did sound like a cookie, a little."

"Yeah, well try this one on for size: there's only one way to kill a shadow."

He looked at me without a trace of humor.

"How's that?"

"Turn on the light."

Miles outlined a plan. I would find Humpty Dumpty and get him to tell me everything he could about the V&D, as quickly as possible. We would doc.u.ment everything in writing, make copies, and address them to all sorts of people--reporters, investigators, conspiracy theorists, anyone we could think of. Then, we'd seal those envelopes in larger envelopes and send them to Miles's most trusted friends at big law firms. Firms that knew about offsh.o.r.e accounts and information that had to be invisible yet accessible. Miles would reach out to them quietly, informally. They would never even know what the information was about. They would just know that if something happened to us, they were to open the envelope and drop the package inside in the mail. That was the leverage: we would live in a precarious balance, like Schrodinger's cat; the information would exist and not exist, and everyone could go on living. I had no idea if the plan would work, if it even made sense. But I couldn't think of anything better. And I was so tired, so scared, that I grabbed on to it like the revealed word of G.o.d.

"Now," Miles said, slipping into a sweater. "Who else have you been with since the night at the plant?"

I felt my heart stop.

Sarah.

23.

I went to see Humpty Dumpty. I had no idea where he lived, but the last time I saw him, he could barely walk. My gut told me I'd find him pa.s.sed out in his office chair at the library. If he made it that far.

I called Sarah and begged her to meet up with Miles. She sounded tired and confused, but I managed to convince her. She had no idea what was going on, and when she did, she would probably hate me, but at least she'd be safe. That was good enough for now. There was a sick feeling in my throat that kept pulsing: you did this. But I swallowed it down. Right now, I was the investigator. Humpty had reached out to me. I was the one he would talk to. I had a job to do.

The library was open twenty-four hours, but it was after midnight on a Sunday, and it was deserted when I got there. I kept my hat low and tried not to look over my shoulder too much.

I headed for the administrators' wing: forsaken on a busy night and now positively gravelike.

There was a soft light under the door of Humpty's office. A good sign. The nameplate announced ARTHUR PEABODY, HEAD TUTOR OF LEGAL METHOD.

I knocked softly.

No response.

I knocked again.

Nothing.

I tried the door.

It was unlocked. I slipped into the room. I saw the dome of Humpty's head over the back of the chair. A few liver spots. Some wisps of white hair.

"Mr. Peabody?"

Nothing.

"Mr. Peabody?"

Pa.s.sed out, I thought. I wondered if I could rouse him.

Then I heard it.

A soft, gurgling noise. I thought of a child blowing bubbles in milk with a straw.

Oh, no.

What was it? Was he choking on his own vomit, like a drummer in a rock band? Or something else . . .

No.

I pushed the thought out of my head and walked closer.

The office was perfectly silent, except for that faint gurgling noise. I was suddenly slapped across the face by the sound of a clock chime.

I jumped, let out a nervous little laugh, and kept walking.

Still no movement from Humpty.

"Mr. Peabody?"

I got close enough to touch his chair.

I reached my hand out. My fingers were trembling.

The chair wheeled around slowly as I pulled on the leather arm.

Arthur Peabody was holding his neck. Rivers of blood spilled through his fingers.

"Oh my G.o.d."

I grabbed for the phone on his desk. He caught my arm and squeezed it.

"No," he hissed.

"I'm calling 911."

He tried to shake his head. With every turn, the river between his fingers surged.

"Please," he whispered.

I could barely hear him. His fingers clawed into my arm. He was trying to pull me in. He whispered into my ear.

"Now or later . . . they'll . . . get me . . ." he wheezed.

"I can protect you."

When I saw his face, I knew what he thought of that.

". . . let it . . . happen . . ."

"Please. I can't."

His mouth worked in my ear.

"I missed . . . my . . . chance."