Martin was halfway down the steps to the Archives when a chill ran up his spine, and he paused for a moment, prodding at the sense of dread that came over him. Something was down there, something he didn’t want to meet, and he was torn between the urge to flee in the other direction and the urge to charge in, metaphorical guns blazing, and protect his friends.
Since his lunch break was technically over, he forced himself to head down.
Everything seemed normal when he walked in, anyway. The room was empty except for Sasha, who was just closing her laptop with a sigh. She looked up and offered Martin a smile when she saw him. “Hey. Weather still good?”
“Clear and cold,” Martin confirmed. “Is…everything okay down here?”
“All clear. Tim left for lunch a bit late—he’s only been gone about fifteen minutes.” Sasha hesitated, then gestured at Jon’s office. “That detective came round looking for you. She’s been in there with Jon for a bit.”
“Shit.” Martin’s heart began knocking against the inside of his chest. That detective could only mean Detective Tonner, which at least explained the sense of dread he was feeling. The presence of the Hunt rarely meant anything good for the likes of them, and that she’d been looking for him specifically even less so.
On the other hand, it wasn’t the Hunt’s way to so openly declare its prey; most of the time it worked in subtler ways. It was the thrill of the chase that was important. No way would she make catching him so easy.
It occurred to him, all of a sudden, that she might not be after him, that she might just be using him as an excuse to go after one of the others—to go after Jon—and his panic increased.
It must not have shown on his face, though, because Sasha simply stood up and wrapped her scarf around her throat. “Right, I’m off to lunch. Best go see what they want with you. See you later, assuming you don’t get arrested.”
She fluttered her fingers and left with a spring in her step, obviously considering the joke a funny one. Martin would have, too, were it not for the fact that he knew that would not be Detective Tonner’s goal. With him or Jon. Ever since the Twisting Deceit had taken Helen Richardson—right out from under Jon’s nose, while Martin sat in the other room feeling drained and useless—and then stabbed Jon in the side before vanishing in the span of time it took Martin to respond to his agonized cry, he’d been living in dread of another attack, and he didn’t know what he’d do if one happened while he wasn’t there to protect Jon again.
He took a deep breath to calm himself, failed to do so entirely, and headed over to Jon’s office.
At the door, he hesitated. Politeness dictated that he knock, but the last time he had while Jon was recording, he’d startled him so badly that he’d nearly leaped through the ceiling. Later that night, over Indian takeaway shared after another exploration of the tunnels, Jon had confessed that he never really liked when people knocked on his door, but he especially hated it when he was immersed in a statement. And whether Detective Tonner was giving him an actual statement or not, she was tied enough to the Hunt that Jon would likely be affected by it. Besides, if she was doing something to hurt him, he wanted to catch her at it rather than give her enough warning that she could stop.
He pushed the door open. Jon looked ashen, drained; Detective Tonner looked angry. Sitting on the table between them was a tape recorder, which was running. It didn’t take a lot of imagination to guess what had happened.
“Martin,” Jon managed, sounding surprised and relieved and apprehensive all at once, which was something only Jon could pull off.
“Sorry for interrupting,” Martin lied. “Um, Sasha said—she said you were looking for me, so I thought…” He trailed off. Likely Detective Tonner would see right through his lie, but at least it would get her attention off Jon.
She stood, rather abruptly, reached into her pocket, and tossed something onto the table. A tape, labeled in the now-familiar handwriting. “Take it,” she growled.
Martin flinched, at the tone of her voice more than anything, which made him want to start running even though he knew it would just mean she would chase him. He stared at the tape, a bit confused as to why Detective Tonner was bringing it and why she would present it in front of Jon, unless…“W-what—”
“I wasn’t going to,” Detective Tonner interrupted, pinning Martin with a glare. She was tall, although not quite as tall as Martin, but she exuded an air of menace that left him in no doubt she could easily heft him by the throat if the mood struck her. “There’s no point in it, really, and I told Basira so. But she’s soft.” She barked out a laugh that sounded as much derisive as amused. “She likes you, for some reason. So, there. Take it.”
“Um.” Martin hesitantly picked up the tape. It was, as usual, labeled with Gertrude’s pointlessly awkward file number and a cryptic title that probably only made sense to her: First Edition. The handwriting was definitely Gertrude’s, so unless Basira had recorded over it, it wasn’t like it contained a hidden message or anything. “W-why—why do you say there’s no point? I don’t—this is only the third tape, and…i-if there’s a pattern, I haven’t figured it out yet.” He slid a glance over at Jon, remembering that he wasn’t supposed to have told anyone. “Um, sorry, Jon. Basira’s—been bringing me some of the tapes they found with Gertrude.”
“Why?” Jon asked, playing the part even though he knew full well.
Before Martin could answer, though, Detective Tonner huffed. “She thought you’d done it.”
“What?” Jon and Martin said in unison.
Detective Tonner didn’t look particularly apologetic. “We both did.”
“Me? B-but—but why?” Martin sputtered. He didn’t look like a killer, or at least he didn’t think he did. Sure, Tim sometimes called him that—jokingly—but he didn’t even think he was capable of something like that.
“Look at you,” Detective Tonner said, gesturing at him. “You’re jumpy as hell. Wouldn’t look me in the eye the first time we came to talk to you. And that accomplice of yours that was lurking around in the background—wasn’t hard to figure out who he was, once we connected the address. And from there, it wasn’t hard to find out who took charge of his paperwork, and who picked him up from prison after. Started wondering if the police hadn’t been looking at the wrong person back then, and if that hadn’t given you a taste for it.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “So yeah, we were looking at you for this. Tried to see if there was anything else we could match you to, because it’s not like you’d have gone seven years between kills.”
Martin tried to digest that. The very thought made him nauseous, almost as much as the idea that she’d been poking into Gerry’s past. Oh, God, had she realized Gerry was supposed to be dead?
“Martin didn’t kill Gertrude Robinson,” Jon said vehemently. “Or anyone else, for that matter. He’d never.”
Detective Tonner snorted. “Yeah, we know. IT finally cleaned up the CCTV footage from that week. We watched your movements the whole time. You never went near the Archives, or Gertrude Robinson. Closest you got to her was her following you, the day she died.”
“What?” Martin jerked his head, startled once again. He was usually good at spotting tails—how had he not noticed?
“Hung about outside the library, just watching you, until you left for the day, then followed you out the door. Came straight back in afterwards and went down to the Archives.” Detective Tonner shrugged. “Only other person who went down there was Bouchard. So unless you’ve got another way in we don’t know about, you’re in the clear.” She gestured at the tapes. “Basira wants to keep bringing you those, fine, that’s on her. I don’t know about it and I don’t want to.” Turning her glare on Jon, she added, “And you—I was never here, got it?”
“Uh, uh—y-yes, of course,” Jon stammered, shrinking back against his chair.
“Good.” Detective Tonner shoved past Martin, slamming the door behind her with a force that made both of them jump.
Instantly, Martin moved closer to Jon’s desk. “Are you okay? She didn’t hurt you, did she?”
“No.” Jon didn’t sound particularly convinced of that, but he held out his hands, palms up, to prove to Martin he wasn’t physically injured—or so he presumed. “I just…good Lord, she’s terrifying.”
“The Hunt,” Martin said, as if that was an adequate explanation. Maybe it was. He sank into the seat Detective Tonner had vacated and stared at the tape in his hands. “I can’t believe they thought I killed her. Or…” He trailed off, not wanting to mention names anywhere Elias might be listening.
“I can’t, either.” Jon came over and sat on the edge of his desk, which put him slightly above eye level with Martin, and studied him worriedly. “You don’t think Elias put them up to it, do you?”
“The possibility occurred to me. If he wants me dead, in a way that isn’t traceable back to him, setting a Hunter on me is probably the way to do it,” Martin said absently, still staring at the tape. “But I doubt it. Detective Tonner wouldn’t have told me I was in the clear if she’d ever really pegged me as a serious suspect, and she would’ve made sure I knew she was after me. After all, part of the thrill of the Hunt is the terror that comes from knowing you’re prey.”
“So you’re saying she might not have stuck your feet to the floor, but she would have at least tied your shoelaces together.”
At that, Martin looked up with a smile. “Something like that, yeah.”
Jon smiled back. It made him look more his age. “What’s the file number on that tape?”
“Uh—” Martin looked at the label again. “0080307, why?”
“I’ll see if I can find it on the shelves,” Jon said, sliding off his desk. “You’re, uh, you’re welcome to stay in here if you’d like to listen to it now.”
“O-oh!” Martin was, admittedly, startled. “I, um—I, I thought you might like to, well, listen with me. If it’s another live one like the last one was, there probably won’t be a file on the shelf.” And the first one had taken them almost a week to find, even knowing the file number. Martin was starting to be as annoyed with Gertrude’s disorganization as Jon was.
Jon paused, looking genuinely surprised. “I—really? I…I thought you preferred listening to them on your own before you shared them with us.”
“I’ve only been doing it that way because Basira usually turns up while I’m the only one here,” Martin told him. “And I don’t…I can’t let them sit, there’s too much of a risk of me losing them or forgetting about them.”
“I don’t see how you can,” Jon murmured, eyes dropping to the tape for a moment. “They’re…there’s something about them that draws you in. Draws me in, anyway.”
Martin bit his lip. He ached to tell Jon everything, to pour out the whole story, but he didn’t know how. He also found he didn’t really want to talk about it in the Archives. And worse, he definitely didn’t want Jon to think he was looking for an equivalent exchange—that he would tell Jon his story if Jon would tell him how he got his Marks in return. And the risk of him trying to pull the story out would be too high.
“It’s…kind of a side effect of the way the Spiral marked me,” he said finally. “I’ll tell you about it sometime. But there are instances where I lose things a lot more easily than I should. And I just, I can’t run the risk of these tapes being one of them, so I listen to them as soon as I get them. By then one of you is usually back, so we can listen again…”
“And we watch you put them in your drawer,” Jon completed, a light dawning in his eyes, “so that fixes in your mind that that’s where they are.”
“Exactly.” Martin smiled, relieved Jon got it. “So, what do you say? Want to hear what they think is worth us knowing?”
Jon smiled, too. “Absolutely. Hold on, I’ll go make us some tea.”
Since the main tape recorder was already on the desk, Martin simply popped out the tape that was already in there—doubtless Jon had been recording Detective Tonner’s statement—before placing in the newest tape. He found his hands were shaking slightly and he wasn’t sure why. Something about this one…
“Any ideas what it might be?” Jon’s voice startled Martin from his thoughts, making him jump. He looked up and accepted the mug of tea with a nod of thanks as Jon gestured to the recorder. “The tape, I mean.”
“The label says First Edition, so I’m guessing there’s a Leitner involved,” Martin said, as gently as he could. Jon flinched almost imperceptibly. “If we’re lucky, it’ll be one the three of us already destroyed. If not, we can track it down and burn it together.”
Jon laughed. It sounded a little unwilling. “Just like that?”
“In the six years we were burning them, I mean really actively hunting them down to destroy them, we took out sixty-two books off the known list,” Martin told him. “Plus thirteen more that we just found unlabeled, so yeah, Jon, just like that.”
Jon…relaxed. A tension Martin hadn’t even realized was there bled out of him like someone had pulled the plug in a drain, and he sank onto his desk, both hands curled around his cup. “Thank you.”
Oh. Oh, there was a story there, and Martin was tempted, he wanted to ask, but the possibility of forcing Jon to answer whether he wanted to or not was too strong. To save himself the temptation, he pressed PLAY on the recorder.
It turned out to be a live statement, and the second the person Gertrude was speaking to opened her mouth, Martin’s entire body ran cold. He knew that voice, knew very well how it could go from charming and coaxing to sharp and condemning in an instant. He knew how the eyes could go from guileless and warm to calculated and cold, how the smile could go from innocent to cruel, how the hands could go from fingers to talons and claws. He was suddenly and abruptly twelve years old and the only thing standing between the people he loved and the worst day of their lives.
Subject is Mary Keay, recorded third of July, 2008.
Martin listened, horrified and fascinated and repulsed all at once, to the story he’d long wondered about but never heard—the story of how Gerry’s mother had obtained her Book, the one that had been a threat held over their heads most of his childhood, the one she’d tried to master. The one Gerry had been bound to. His hands clenched the mug so tightly they almost crushed it as Mary’s voice spooled outward, weaving the story, doing her nastily polite little pas de deux with Gertrude.
The click of the tape popping off jerked him abruptly back to the present. His entire body buzzed, and there was a tightness in his chest he wanted to rub away, but he couldn’t seem to unclench his fingers.
“Martin? Martin, are you all right?” Jon’s voice sounded far away, but then his hands were on Martin’s shoulders.
Martin gasped, the mug slipping from his suddenly nerveless fingers. It dropped to the floor and shattered, and he flinched away from it, bracing himself for the blow.
“Leave it. It’s not important.” One of Jon’s hands came up, hesitantly, to cup Martin’s cheek. “Are you—God, I shouldn’t have—talk to me, Martin. Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Martin said, too quickly, hearing the lie as soon as it was past his lips. Instead of looking angry, Jon just looked worried. Martin gave in to the temptation to lean into his palm. “I’m just…I w-wasn’t expecting to hear her. Christ, she still scares me.”
“I can understand that. She sounds terrifying. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like to grow up around her.” Jon rubbed his thumb across Martin’s cheek without seeming to realize he was doing it. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
Martin decided to be honest. “No. But I will be.”
“Okay,” Jon said softly, and then with a bit more certainty, “Okay. I…do you have any idea whose page she might have given Gertrude?”
“No. I thought she did them all in Sanskrit.” Martin frowned. “She must have done one special for Gertrude, so it was probably someone she knew. Christ, it was probably one of her assistants.”
Jon blinked, drawing back from Martin. “Gertrude didn’t have any assistants.”
“She had three,” Martin corrected him. “At least that I remember. God, what were their names?”
“We can probably get Sasha to hack the personnel files. She’d enjoy that,” Jon muttered. He drew his hand away—Martin instantly missed the contact, but not enough to make an ass of himself asking for it back—and slid off the desk. “There’s a lot in that I don’t understand…but there’s one thing I do, and that’s the very distinctive floorboard at the end.”
Martin blinked. “Floorboard?”
Jon actually grinned mischievously and walked over to a corner, then tapped a board with his foot. It creaked exactly the way the board had on the tape. “It’s still here. The worms didn’t even touch it…because there’s a hidden compartment underneath.” He knelt down and pressed his fingers into the crack. Sure enough, it levered up easily.
Martin’s own curiosity got the better of him, and he rose to his feet, carefully avoiding the shards of his mug, to see. “What’s in it?”
Jon reached down, a slight frown puckering his brow. “Hmm. No skin page, but…” He came up with two objects—a laptop, and a key. “I wonder what this unlocks?”
“Her house, maybe?”
“Maybe.” Jon studied the laptop. “I’m possibly even more curious as to what’s on this.”
“I bet Sasha can help with that, too. If you ask.” Martin tilted his head to one side as Jon looked up at him. “Or you could see how far you get on your own.”
“I trust Sasha. I think.” Jon replaced the floorboard and stood. “We’ll talk to her when she gets back from lunch. Meanwhile, let me get a cloth to clean up this mess, and then find you another mug. Gertrude’s not the only one who could do with a cup of tea after that.”