Gooseberry Bluff Community College of Magic: The Thirteenth Rib (Kindle Serial) (35 page)

Unfortunately, she had bigger concerns.

“This isn’t how we normally do things,” the warden
had told her. She’d been called in during the Stolas manifestation because of
security concerns, so Joy hadn’t had to get her out of bed.

“I know, and I apologize,” said Joy. “These are
extreme circumstances.”

“So you said,” said the warden in a tone that displayed
her skepticism, but she authorized the interview anyway.

The door opened, and Veronica Dada entered.

Veronica Dada was the sort of person that Joy
always felt she should be able to recognize. Sometimes she could use clues to
figure out faces—haircuts, of course, but also facial hair, prominent eyebrows,
the shape of lips or teeth. Veronica Dada’s hair had gone gray, but she still
wore it long and natural, a mass of curls that fell back from her face—like the
tail of a comet, if a comet’s tail were larger than the comet itself. She had a
prominent mole on the left side of her face, below her mouth, and her left ear
was set just slightly higher than her right.

Her aura was pale yellow, rippling blue:
optimism, openness, a helpful nature.

She smiled at Joy as she sat down. “Hello.” She
placed her hands on the table as if they were not cuffed together, and did not
react as the guard removed the cuffs, ran them through the ring on the table,
and reattached them.

“Ms. Dada,” said Joy. “Before we begin, will you
answer a question for me?”

“Isn’t that a question?” Dada said it lightly.
Joy thought that perhaps she was stalling until the guard left the room, so she
waited.

“I was wondering if you could confirm for me
that we have never met,” Joy said after the guard had left.

“That is true.”

“I believe you sent me a message through my
brother, asking me to come and speak with you.”

“That is also true.”

Joy hadn’t understood the message at first. It
had made her angry, to think that her brother would speak to someone like
Margaret May and ask her to pass on such a message. “Talk to Dad”? Joy had no
reason to believe that her father was lingering on this plane as a ghost. But
at some point in Philadelphia, it had clicked. Trevor had never called their
father Dad. As a toddler, he started saying “Dada,” and he had never stopped.
For him to deliberately use the word “Dad” was a message.

“Tell me about your connection to my brother.”

“I began a correspondence with him while he was
in Leavenworth,” said Dada. “I maintain a correspondence with dozens of
brothers and sisters both inside and outside of the prison-industrial complex.
You know that the white man sleeps a little better every time one of us is put
behind bars.”

“I’m curious what you and Trevor used to talk
about,” Joy said.

“When he first wrote to me he was very angry.
Your name came up, more than once. He felt that you had personally betrayed him
when you became an agent of the FBMA.” Veronica Dada recited each letter of the
acronym as if it were a slur.

“Did you agree with him?”

“There are many paths to enlightenment,” said
Dada. “I myself joined many organizations as a youth. SDS. The Panthers. ASL.
There are many I don’t even remember. It was like alphabet soup in those days,
everyone talking about changing the world, most of them with no idea what they
were doing. I don’t exempt myself from that. I was naive and I trusted people I
shouldn’t have. I was addicted to joining. I’ve mostly given it up.”

“That’s not true, is it?” asked Gray. “That
you’ve given it up.”

“Agent Gray here is a truth-teller,” said Joy.
“I wanted him to hear what you have to say.”

“Gray, is it? A good name for a lawman—always
wading hip-deep in a sloppy mix of black and white.” Dada smiled at her own
joke. Despite her words, Dada’s tone was not confrontational. She didn’t seem
to have any need to convince either of them of anything; she was certain of her
own truths.

“I suppose I do join, here and there, mostly in
an advisory capacity. I receive many more invitations, however, than I actually
accept. I am a freedom fighter, a warrior for intersectionality, but I am not a
lunatic.”

“I was wondering if you could tell me if you
ever received an invitation to join or endorse something called the Four
Corners,” said Joy.

“Hm. Not precisely, no. I was sent a copy of the
Handbook, but as soon as I realized who had written it I destroyed it.” Dada
shook her head. “I dislike destroying literature of any sort, but I did not
want to see any more brothers or sisters fall into the trap of those pages.”

“Can you explain? The Handbook was written by a,
a”—Joy checked her notes—“a Father Light, is that correct?”

“Father Light was obviously an alias,” said
Dada. “I recognized the style; in fact I’d read parts of it before, some
version of them, anyway. It’s been thirty years since I saw it, but back in
those days of ferment I saw his imprint often enough, always on the most
dangerous and irresponsible of proposals. We all knew he was an agent
provocateur months before he was officially unmasked.”

“What was his name?” Joy asked.

“Kenneth Kite,” said Dada.

“Kenneth Kite was a plant?”

“Yes. FBI. Handpicked by J. Edgar himself.
Kenneth was forever talking about arming ourselves so that we could strike
back. It wasn’t like when the Panthers began carrying weapons. That was about
exercising their legal rights, and forcing the pigs to demonstrate their
hypocrisy. No, Kenneth wanted us to escalate every time we were acted upon. If
they beat one of us—and they did, regularly—Kenneth said we had to retaliate.
If we had gone along with any of his plans, we would have all ended up in
federal prison instead of just me.”

“So who do you think Kenneth Kite is working for
now?”

Veronica Dada sat back. “You said you brought
Agent Gray here to hear what I have to say,” she said.

“Yes.”

“You trust him.”

“I do.”

“Go ahead, talk about me like I’m not here,”
said Gray. “That’s not annoying at all.”

Veronica Dada ignored him. Her brown eyes
drilled into Joy’s. “What are you prepared to do?”

Joy had a moment of déjà vu before she realized
Flood had asked her the same question a few hours ago. The answer was the same.
“Whatever it takes.”

“It’s my opinion that you will only have one
option,” said Dada.

“I understand.” Joy’s mouth had gone dry; she
almost choked on that last word.

“Agent Gray, if I understand your colleague
here, she’s asking me to make you aware of some things which she is magically
prevented from telling you.”

Joy found herself unable to even nod her assent
at this.

“It’s true that she and I have never met,” Dada
went on, “but I share some responsibility for her predicament. One of the
organizations that I have been latterly involved with is something called the
Thirteenth Rib. Not a political organization, nor an organization for social
change, not even a bridge club for aging revolutionaries. In fact, it is a
secret society dedicated to defending our world from invasion from another
dimension, a task made a thousand times more difficult because of the fact that
we believe the enemy has infiltrated the ranks of our government, our military,
and our law enforcement organizations—”

“Including the FBMA,” said Gray. He sat down
next to Joy and looked at her. She could only stare back.

“Including the FBMA,” said Dada. “Including
whoever it is that Kenneth Kite is working for, because I believe that the
Handbook is a scheme of provocation on the part of our enemy, a nihilist
organization ostensibly bent upon chaos, but ultimately serving the needs of
order. Spread fear; unleash infernal powers; create uncertainty among the
innocents. Create a situation in which the powers that be are quote-unquote
‘forced’ to impose fascist order and lay the groundwork for a full invasion.”

“You believe this,” said Gray. His aura was
tinged with a dark, brownish yellow as he struggled to parse this information.
He looked at Joy. “You believe this too,” he said.

“This is new information,” she said.

He narrowed his eyes. “That’s only partially
true. Who are you working for, Joy?”

She shook her head. How could she answer when
she had been asking herself the same question for days?

“For myself,” she said. “For my family. For
Martin.”

“Martin’s dead,” said Gray.

“Martin sent me to Gooseberry Bluff,” she said.
“He knew some of what I was going to find. Not who was behind the demons, or
what happened to Carla Drake, but he knew that there was another threat. He
knew that not everyone in the bureau could be trusted.”

“But you trust
her
,” said Gray.

“It’s not just her,” said Joy. “There’s so much
that I still can’t tell you, and there isn’t much time. I need you to decide
whether you’re going to believe me—whether you’re going to help me—or whether
you’re going to turn me in to Flood.”

“You think Flood’s dirty,” said Gray.

“I don’t know,” said Joy. “Something tells me
that would be too easy. But he wants me out of Gooseberry Bluff, and the job
isn’t finished.”

For a minute, perhaps two, the only sound in the
room was that of their breathing. Then Gray faced Veronica Dada.

“You’re asking me to take a lot of things on
faith, ma’am,” he said. “But I’m a truth-teller, and faith isn’t something I’ve
ever had much use for. Sometimes people believe the lies that they tell
themselves, and they can sound the same to my ears as the truth. But in my
experience there’s one thing that no one can lie to themselves about, and
that’s taking the life of another person. So before I risk my job, my liberty,
and possibly my life on this information, I want you to answer a question for
me. Are you responsible for the deaths of Officer Terrence Natterstad, Officer
Jerome Fink, and Agent Kevin Fuller?”

Veronica Dada smiled and leaned forward.

Joy thought of Hector Ay as she slipped through the campus
ward outside of Gooseberry Bluff. She wondered how long it would be before he
was able to place the wards again.

“Who are we meeting?” Gray asked.

“I can’t tell you that,” said Joy.

“The Thirteenth Rib?”

“Yes.” She was surprised. “Apparently I can say
that much, anyway.”

The campus lawn sparkled with dew, and the crows
huddled in groups at the tops of the oak trees. A few of them stirred as Joy
and Gray passed, and she wondered if Hector could see what the birds were
seeing. She waved, just in case.

“Long story,” she said in response to Gray’s
look.

Joy used the keyword for the ward on the door,
unlocked it, and led Gray inside. “Welcome to Gooseberry Bluff,” she said.

“I’ve been here,” he said. “Remember? After the
mess in the library?”

“Fine. You’re here again. Welcome.”

“Sarcasm. Thanks.”

“Gray, I’m tired. I know I’m asking a lot of you
tonight—today—but I would really appreciate it if you let up a bit, because I
don’t want to snap at you and make all the favor-asking into something really
awkward.”

“Yeah. All right.”

She led him through the high, open lobby to the
administration wing and Philip Fitzgerald’s office. Edith Grim-Parker was not
in yet, but the doors were all open, and Ken Song was sitting in Edith’s chair
with a crow perched on his shoulder and a basset hound on his lap.

“Welcome to Operation: Stopgap,” he said in a
rasp.

“Where are the others?” Joy asked.

Ken gestured toward Philip’s office. “Everyone
but Cyril, who’s back at the Arms, Bebe-sitting. Who’s this attractive young
man?”

“Agent Thomas Gray, Professor Kang-ho Song,”
said Joy.

“Agent? Why do I have the feeling we’re being
infiltrated?”

“Ken’s just being difficult,” said Simone,
entering from Philip’s office. “I’ve been in touch with Veronica. Young man, we
are trusting you with some very important secrets. I hope you won’t let us down.”

“If what I’ve been told is true, you have
nothing to fear from me,” said Gray.

Simone shook his hand. “I’m Simone Deschamp. I
need to borrow Agent Wilkins for a moment, if you don’t mind.”

“As long as you give me your word that you’re
not going to harm her,” said Gray.

Simone barked out a short laugh, but raised her
eyebrows when she saw Gray’s expression. “I promise that I intend no harm
toward Agent Wilkins.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Carry on.”

Simone took Joy’s arm. “I think we’ll do this in
the ladies’ room,” she said. “Abel and Yves are just going to argue for a while
yet, anyway.”

“OK,” said Joy. “But what are we doing?”

“Well, dear, you can’t go over there like this.
For all we know, there is another Joy Wilkins where you’re going, and if you were
recognized it could cause all sorts of problems. Lutrineas doesn’t need my help
to look like someone who belongs, but you do.”

“Oh.” Joy hadn’t considered this. Clearly the
Thirteenth Rib had been making a lot of plans since her calls last night had set
all of this in motion. “So who do I have to be?” she asked as Simone led her
into the ladies’ room.

“We’re going to be Sons of Order,” said a
dark-skinned man with close-cropped hair and Lutrineas’s aura. He was sitting
on the counter between two sinks, wearing a gray suit. “At least, you are. I
reserve the right to switch to the next most comfortable form I run across.”

“Get down from there so I can take a look at
you,” said Simone. She turned Joy to face her and looked her in the eyes. “Are
you all right, dear? You don’t look very sure about this.”

“I’m not,” said Joy. “I’ve never…I mean, are you
really going to…how does this even work?”

“Relax, Joy. This is a practice as old as
Tiresias, and we’ve refined it quite a bit since then. It’s going to be
temporary, I promise. Trust me, if I could make it permanent, I’d be a wealthy
woman.”