AHEAD OF ME, the final flight of steps ends at an opening in the ceiling from which pours a din of mechanical noise. Next to it is a sign that says CLOCKWORKS.
I grab hold of my Latin medal, squeeze it tight.
Stokes pulls up next to me. “That medal—it’s how I tracked you back to Georgetown. Discovered who you really were: notorious Bix of the Child’s Army. And when Kameron returned from his powwow in the woods and heard my news, he decided it was God’s will the Tabula Rasa relocate to Georgetown. Begin the work of Reclamation there—starting with anyone connected to Beatrix Parrish.”
Including the Child’s Army. How many friends did I expose to Kameron’s vengeance? How many were hunted down, sent to his camps, or killed for my little trip to Baltimore?
This is why the memory of that day at the quarry and Theo’s laughter wouldn’t let go, why it clung to me like a burr till I remembered all of it.
It’s why I volunteered for the nerds’ deadly machine.
Because that day—and its bloody aftermath—broke me.
You don’t know what really happened—
I know this is what Kyung and the others were desperate to keep hidden from me. So I wouldn’t go off the rails before completing the mission. I know it’s what I’ve kept locked away in my tansu drawers, what I’ve used death and the Unit to escape from.
What I’ve been blindly trying to atone for, feeling around in the dark of my soul for a clue to it.
“Don’t let it go to your head, Beatrix,” Stokes says. “It’s not all because of you. Kameron needed a way to eliminate potential rivals—to consolidate power, acquire those assets—and minds—of use to us. Most of all, to energize the flock and recruit new members with a convenient new enemy they could band against—science. The New Covenant has proved more than handy for all of that.”
Stokes waves the gun at the stairs. “Let’s go.”
I climb through the opening into a square room. Each wall contains an enormous clockface connected by a shaft to a large, motorized clockworks clattering away in the noisy center of the room. With every advance of its huge gears, a sharp tick punctuates the din. Stokes gestures to a ladder near the clockworks that leads to a small wooden hatch in the ceiling. “There.”
“Can we just take a minute to talk about—”
Stokes rams the gun barrel hard into my back, till I duck under one of the metal shafts and start up the ladder.
At the top, I open the hatch and climb up into the tower’s attic.
On each of its walls is a single tall casement window starting a foot off the floor. They rattle against their steel frames, buffeted by the December wind forcing its way inside. Can feel the ribbons of cold air whipping around me.
Now we’ve come to the point of this climb. How Stokes ties up his last loose end. Shooting me would be too messy, flags would be raised. Timelines affected.
Stokes pushes me toward the nearest window. Pulls up its metal latch, shoves it open, and steps back. The wind and snow rush in, howling around me, plastering the nurse’s uniform against my legs. “They’ll never question it. Even Gibbs.”
He’s right. Desperate, suicidal patient gets loose and jumps to her death. No one at Hanover except Wallace and Joe will even bat an eye.
But first he needs me out the window.
The snowy ground far below is barely visible through the thick, swirling flakes.
“Don’t do this,” I say.
“Don’t worry; it’ll be quick.”
True. Just one step into the winter air, and it’s over. But then this asshole wins.
More important, everyone else loses.
Stokes will terrorize—or trick—Mary’s brave friend into giving up the virus sample. Then Kameron Rook will force Kyung and the rest to develop the cure for him at gunpoint.
“Let’s go,” Stokes says, but I don’t move. He’s not pleased. “If you insist on making some pointless stand here, after you’re dead, once we’ve squeezed a cure for the Guest out of your scientist friends, I’ll have my men take your brother and anyone else you care about still left in 2035, and slowly—very slowly—gut them like fishes. But if you simply accept the reality of your situation and jump, I’ll let them live. Think of it as one last opportunity to save lives.”
I look out the window at the yawning snow-laced blackness. “Say yes to this death right in front of me.”
Stokes smiles. “I knew those mantras weren’t in vain. As the Buddha once said, ‘Serenity comes when you trade expectations for acceptance.’ Chop, chop, Beatrix. I’ve got work to do. The cure awaits.” He waves the gun. “Time’s up. Let’s go.”
Time is up, motherfucker.
I pretend to take a moment to weigh my decision, then mold my face into an expression of hopeless resignation, my body into the slump of surrender. I did a lot of that in the Unit. I know the move well. “Okay. I … I’ll do it,” I say solemnly, and step forward, lifting one foot onto the deep windowsill. Flakes of snow roil around me.
Stokes steps closer. Now that he’s got me in position, the cocksure bastard intends to hurry this along, not wait for me to jump. But the gun leaves him with just one arm for shoving.
I bow my head, take a deep breath as if I’m psyching myself up, and wait for him to make the move.
It’s not a long wait.
When I see his knee bend, about to spring, I duck and pivot away from the window, slipping under his arm that’s already reaching out to shove me. Then I knock the revolver from his other hand. It slides across the floor.
Stokes sees me eyeing it. Pulls a switchblade from his jacket pocket, flicks it open, and steps closer.
All I’ve got is the tiny box cutter in my pocket.
But it’s a box cutter he doesn’t know about.
He takes another step as the knife begins an arcing slash toward me. But my hand thrusts the tiny box cutter blade into the oncoming path of the knife, slashing open the muscle at the base of Stokes’s thumb. The switchblade falls to the ground.
Before he can recover, I’ve snatched his knife, regained control over how this ends.
You can’t let him live.
I ignore the voice. New Bix gets to decide this. “Come,” I say to Stokes, and gesture toward the stairs as my mind feverishly works on scenarios for how I’m going to keep him immobilized till I get him back to 2035.
But Stokes is having none of it. Backs away toward the window as he pulls something from his pocket. His link. He presses the button. Then presses it again. And again. But nothing happens. There’s shock on Stokes’s face—he doesn’t know about the fifteen-second delay.