Part 21 (1/2)

Mouse stares at him.

”Not for any morbid reason,” Andrew explains hastily. ”It's just -- my father wanted to know what would motivate someone to do such an awful thing, what would make them want to do it. . . and he thought, if he could read what the killer actually wrote, maybe he could get a handle on it, see something between the lines.” Andrew shrugs. ”But of course, he didn't actually ask to see the notes. I mean, Mrs.

Winslow didn't have them anymore, and besides, that's, that isn't something you can ask.

”So my father never figured out what the killer's motives were. But, he said, he knew what his goal was. That much was obvious: he wanted to destroy Mrs. Winslow's soul. Why, we don't know, but that's what he was after.

”And he failed.”

And he failed: the words send a weird shudder up Mouse's spine, turning the pain in her neck to something else for a moment, something silvery and light that jangles in the back of her skull.

”He failed,” Andrew repeats. ”Oh, he hurt her, all right: made her into a different person than she would have been otherwise. And maybe he even made her a little crazy: she still waits for the mail every morning, and my father thinks she won't ever be able to move out of this house, not until she knows for sure that there aren't any more notes coming. She sleeps badly; and she worries about me. So there's that. But she survived. She got hurt, but she wasn't destroyed. And -- Penny? -- she's a good person.

Still.”

Mouse gets it -- what he's really telling her -- but she can't accept it. She shakes her head firmly, the pain settling back in hard, bringing fresh tears to her eyes. ”I am not a good person.”

”Why not? Because your mother tortured you?”

”Because,” says Mouse, and stops, thinking: Because I deserved it.

Andrew reads her mind. ”How could you have deserved it?” he demands evenly. ”Remember the little girl in the diner, Penny. What could a little kid do to deserve that kind of treatment?”

”I don't know!” Mouse shouts. Crying, she bangs her fists on the steering wheel. ”I don't remember! But I must have. . . must have. . .” She breaks off in sobs.

Andrew waits for her tears to subside and then asks, gently: ”Penny? Would you like to come inside for a while?”

Still sniffling, Mouse shrugs noncommittally.

”You could,” says Andrew, as if phrasing a delicate proposition, ”you could meet my father. If you'd like.”

”Your father?”

”I could call him out. You could talk to him.”

”Your father,” says Mouse. She wipes her nose on her sleeve. ”Why. . .”

”The thing is,” Andrew says, ”what you're experiencing right now. . . it's not something that's ever happened to me. I've never had to come to terms with being multiple, because I always just have been.

All of that, the part where you learn how to cope with it, that happened before me. Which is maybe why I'm not more help to you.”

”Oh no,” says Mouse automatically. ”No, you're helping.”

”I don't feel like I am,” Andrew says. ”Not enough. But maybe my father. . .” He shrugs. ”So do you want to meet him?”

Not really, Mouse thinks. But then she thinks about driving home from here, alone -- only not alone, oh G.o.d -- and she decides that of the things that she doesn't want to do, meeting Andrew's ”father” is probably the least worst option.

”OK,” she relents. ”All right.”

”Great.” Andrew smiles. ”Come on inside then,” he says, reaching for the door handle. ”Mrs.

Winslow will make you coffee, or tea if you like. . .”

He practically bounds out of the car, and Mouse thinks, comfortable in the world. A part of her is appalled that he can act so carefree just moments after describing a triple murder and the mental torture of an old woman, but another part of her is envious. Maybe Andrew, or Andrew's father, can teach her the trick of it: how to acknowledge evil without being consumed by it. Maybe if Mouse could do that, she wouldn't need to be terrified of the little girl in the cave.

Andrew trots up the front walk of the house, calling to Mrs. Winslow; as he mounts the porch steps she says something to him that breaks him up, and they laugh together, at ease.

Mouse gets out of her car and -- moving slowly at first -- goes to join them.

FIFTH BOOK:.

ANDREW.

13.

Julie was jealous of Penny.

That was what Adam thought, anyway; I wasn't sure what was going on. I'd expected Julie to be pleased about my decision to help Penny out, and I she seemed pleased, especially at first. . . but she also started acting weird.

Like the invitation to have breakfast at her apartment on Sat.u.r.day morning. That was nice, if unexpected. But when I showed up bright and early on Sat.u.r.day, Julie was waiting for me outside her building.

”Let's go eat at the diner,” she suggested.

”The diner?” I said. ”But I thought. . . I thought you wanted to have breakfast here.” I held up a grocery bag. ”I brought frozen cinnamon rolls. The fun kind.”

”The apartment's kind of a mess right now,” Julie told me. ”Besides, I've got no food in the fridge -- I forgot. We can't just eat cinnamon rolls.”

”OK,” I said, disappointed.

”Here,” Julie said, reaching for the bag. ”I'll put those in the freezer so they won't thaw. Just wait down here for me. . .” She took the rolls and ran inside. She was gone a long time.

”Tell the truth,” said Adam, while we were waiting. ”The fact that you can't figure her out is part of the attraction.”

”Be quiet. I'm not attracted to her anymore.”

Adam wouldn't even dignify that with a laugh.

”So,” Julie said, a little too cheerfully, when she finally reappeared, ”let's go eat!” She hooked her arm in mine and started down the block at a brisk pace, practically dragging me along with her.

”Julie,” I said, stumbling as I tried to keep up, ”Julie, slow down a little!”

”I'm hungry!” Julie exclaimed, and kissed me on the side of the head, which temporarily scrambled my thoughts. By the time I got my equilibrium back we were on Bridge Street -- moving at a more reasonable speed, now -- and Julie was quizzing me about Penny.

”There isn't a whole lot to tell, so far,” I said, which wasn't strictly true. But I'd already decided I wasn't going to mention the e-mails I'd gotten or the part about Maledicta chasing me into Thaw Ca.n.a.l, and if you left that stuff out, there wasn't a whole lot to tell.

”You've been hanging out with her though, right?”