Part 22 (2/2)
”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.”
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