calm and claimed only to have heard bits and pieces about Teplova’s enemies—D.J.’s name along with nebulous haunted accounts of other foes, including the dogs.
Dogs—plural. Apparently. And we’d only killed one of them.
I didn’t want to think about what would happen if I ran into a pack of those things.
But Willow insisted the reason she was nosing through the doctor’s files when we’d found her was that she didn’t have much more information on the night’s events than we did. She acknowledged she’d known the clinic had been closed for the past six months, but had no more than a thousand equally likely suspicions as to why, and only said that her friend had called her tonight with a supposed life-and-death emergency … and that she’d arrived only to find death.
Either she really didn’t know very much, or she was capable of making it sound like she didn’t.
“Don’t worry, her background checks out completely,” Checker said. He scooted his wheelchair back and craned his neck around to watch through the window as the two women went into his house, even though they were clearly visible on the monitors. “I mean, I figured it would, because I’ve seen her on the newscasts just like everyone else, and besides, if there was anything for anybody to find, people would’ve been all over her. Like the Brian Williams thing. She’s too much of a celebrity not to keep her nose as clean as possible, especially being a woman. But yeah, aside from the plastic surgery secret, which I honestly can’t believe she’s been able to keep this long, she’s as clean as a whistle.”
I cared less about clean backgrounds than whether a person was on our side. “I don’t think she’s working for D.J. or Halberd. But I also don’t think she’s telling us everything.”
Checker pressed his lips together for a moment. “How sure are you?”
“You mean, should I grab some thumbscrews and start tightening them on her fingers and toes? Jesus, I don’t know.”
He twitched slightly at that. Checker was usually much more antitorture than I was. The fact that he didn’t hit me with a sarcastic comeback said everything about how worried he was about Arthur. So did the drawn skin of his face and the tired shadows under his eyes.
I felt the same way myself.
“What’s her rep as a journalist?” I asked.
“Solid. One of the best investigative reporters out there. Rising star, on track to become the next Tom Brokaw or something—she only hit the scene this decade, but she’s reported from all over the world, battlefronts and natural disasters and disease-ridden hot zones. She’s been on sabbatical lately to write a book, and some people have made noises about hoping it meant she was going to run for political office.”
“So, if she was investigating Pithica…”
“I’d say I wouldn’t want to be them.”
“She didn’t break the story,” I pointed out. “They beat her.”
“Well, I’m going to hope she’s playing a long game on getting sources,” Checker said, moving forward to start multitasking on one of his machines as he spoke. “Maybe she’ll team up with us after this. I’m actually surprised you haven’t heard of her—I know it’s you, but she’s practically a household name.”
And she still hadn’t been able to save her friend. Teplova had likely called her tonight for help of some kind—the bottomless sort of help a friend of power and prestige and wealth could employ. None of that had stopped the assassins.
I wasn’t going to fail my friends the way Willow Grace had. I wouldn’t let myself.
“All right, let’s set her aside for now.” I swallowed. “You should know—Simon thinks Teplova might have been. Uh. Like us somehow.”
“Like us how?”
“No. Like me and Simon.” I hesitated. “Or just … like me.”
Checker had stopped typing and turned back to me, his face very still.
“I don’t think this has to do with me. I mean, I don’t think that history is why Arthur ended up looking into them,” I said quickly, though I wasn’t sure of that at all. “But if whoever killed Teplova killed her because … We might be running up against some dangerous people.”
“Does this give us something?” Checker asked softly. He was gripping the edge of the desk so hard, his knuckles had gone white. “Do you know anything about—does Simon know—”
“No. I already asked him. All he knows is that it sounds likely this is all mixed up with people who have, you know, our same sorts of … talents, but he doesn’t