“All right,” Tia said. “Well, if you are correct, then Steelheart was impervious for most of the fight and only harmed near the end. Something changed. I’m working through all possibilities—something about your father, the location, or the situation. The most likely seems the possibility you mentioned, that the vault was involved. Perhaps something inside it weakened Steelheart, and once the vault was blown open it could affect him.”
“So you’re looking for a record of the bank vault’s contents.”
“Yes,” Tia said. “But it’s an impossible task. Most of the records would have been destroyed with the bank. Off-site records would have been stored on a server somewhere. First Union was hosted by a company known as Dorry Jones LLC. Most of their servers were located in Texas, but the building was burned down eight years back during the Ardra riots.
“That leaves the off chance that they had physical records or a digital backup at another branch, but that building housed the main offices, so the chances of that are slim. Other than that, I’ve been looking for patron lists—the rich or notable who were known to frequent the bank and have boxes in the vault. Perhaps they stored something in there that will be part of the public record. A strange rock, a specific symbol that Steelheart might have seen, something.”
I looked at Cody. Servers? Hosted? What was she talking about? He shrugged.
The problem was, an Epic weakness could be just about anything. Tia mentioned symbols—there were some Epics who, if they saw a specific pattern, lost their powers for a few moments. Others were weakened by thinking certain thoughts, not eating certain foods, or eating the wrong foods. The weaknesses were more varied than the powers themselves.
“If we don’t figure out this puzzle,” Tia said, “the rest of the plan is useless. We’re starting down a dangerous path, but we don’t yet know if we’ll be capable of doing what we need to at the end. That bothers me greatly, David. If you think of anything—anything—that could give me another lead to work on, speak of it.”
“I will,” I promised.
“Good,” she said. “Otherwise, take Cody and please let me concentrate.”
“You really should learn to do two things at once, lass,” Cody said. “Like me.”
“It’s easy to both be a buffoon and make messes of things, Cody,” she replied. “Putting those messes back together while dealing with said buffoon is a much more difficult prospect. Go find something to shoot, or whatever it is you do.”
“I thought I was doing whatever it is I do,” he said absently. He stabbed a finger at a line on one of the pages, which looked like it listed clients of the bank. It read Johnson Liberty Agency.
“What are you—” Tia began, then cut herself off as she read the words.
“What?” I asked, reading the document. “Are those people who stored things at the bank?”
“No,” Tia said. “This isn’t a list of clients. It’s a list of people the bank was paying. That’s …”
“The name of their insurance company,” Cody said, smirking.
“Calamity, Cody,” Tia swore. “I hate you.”
“I know you do, lass.”
Oddly, both of them were smiling as they said it. Tia immediately began shuffling through papers, though she noticed—with a dry look—that Cody had left a smudged bit of mayonnaise from his sandwich on the paper where he’d pointed.
He took me by the shoulder and steered me away from the table.
“What just happened?” I asked.
“Insurance company,” Cody said. “The people who First Union Bank paid piles of money to cover the stuff they had in their vault.”
“So that insurance company …”
“Would have kept a detailed, day-by-day record of just what they were insuring,” Cody said with a grin. “Insurance people are a wee bit anal about things like that. Like bankers. Like Tia, actually. If we’re lucky, the bank filed an insurance claim following the loss of the building. That would leave an additional paper trail.”
“Clever,” I said, impressed.
“Oh, I’m just good at finding things that are hovering around under my nose. I have keen eyes. I once caught a leprechaun, you know.”
I looked at him skeptically. “Aren’t those Irish?”
“Sure. He was over in the homeland on an exchange basis. We sent the Irish three turnips and a sheep’s bladder in trade.”
“Doesn’t seem like much of a trade.”
“Oh, I think it was a sparking good one, seeing as to how leprechauns are imaginary and all. Hello, Prof. How’s your kilt?”
“As imaginary as your leprechaun, Cody,” Prof said, walking into the chamber from one of the side rooms, the one he’d appropriated as his “thinking room,” whatever that meant. It was the one with the imager in it, and the other Reckoners stayed away from it. “Can I borrow David?”
“Please, Prof,” Cody said, “we’re friends. You should know by now that you needn’t ask something like that … you should be well aware of my standard charge for renting one of my minions. Three pounds and a bottle of whiskey.”
I wasn’t sure if I should be more insulted at being called a minion, or at the low price to rent me.
Prof ignored him, taking me by the arm. “I’m sending Abraham and Megan to Diamond’s place today.”
“The weapons dealer?” I asked, eager. They’d mentioned that he might have some technology for sale that could help the Reckoners pretend to be an Epic. The “powers” manifested would have to be flashy and destructive, to get Steelheart’s attention.
“I want you to tag along,” Prof said. “It will be good experience for you. But follow orders—Abraham is in charge—and let me know if anyone you meet seems to recognize you.”
“I will.”
“Go get your gun, then. They’re leaving soon.”
15
“WHAT about the gun?” Abraham said as we walked. “The bank, the vault contents, those could be a false lead, could they not? What if there was something special about the gun that your father fired at him?”
“That gun was dropped by a random security officer,” I said. “Smith and Wesson M&P nine-millimeter, semiauto. There was nothing special about it.”
“You remember the exact gun?”
I kicked a bit of trash as we walked through the steel-walled underground tunnel. “As I said, I remember that day. Besides, I know guns.” I hesitated, then admitted more. “When I was young, I assumed the type of gun must have been special. I saved up, planning to buy one, but nobody would sell to a kid my age. I was planning to sneak into the palace and shoot him.”
“Sneak into the palace,” Abraham said flatly.
“Uh, yes.”
“And shoot Steelheart.”
“I was ten,” I said. “Give me a little credit.”
“To a boy with aspirations like that, I would extend my respect—but not credit. Or life insurance.” Abraham sounded amused. “You are an interesting man, David Charleston, but you sound like you were an even more interesting child.”
I smiled. There was something invitingly friendly about this soft-spoken, articulate Canadian, with his light French accent. You almost didn’t notice the enormous machine gun—with mounted grenade launcher—resting on his shoulder.
We were still in the steel catacombs, where even such a high level of armament didn’t draw particular attention. We passed occasional groups of people huddled around burning fires or heaters plugged into pirated electrical jacks. More than a few of the people we passed carried assault rifles.
Over the last few days I’d ventured out of the hideout a couple times, always in the company of one of the other Reckoners. The babysitting bothered me, but I got it. I couldn’t exactly hope for them to trust me yet. Not completely. Besides—though I would never admit it out loud—I didn’t want to walk the steel catacombs alone.
I’d avoided these depths for years. At the Factory they told stories about the depraved people—terrible monsters—who lived dow
n here. Gangs that literally fed on the foolish who wandered into forgotten hallways, killing them and feasting on their flesh. Murderers, criminals, addicts. Not the normal sort of criminals and addicts we had up above, either. Specially depraved ones.
Perhaps those were exaggerations. The people we passed did seem dangerous—but more in a hostile way, not in an insane way. They watched with grim expressions and eyes that tracked your every movement until you passed out of their view.
These people wanted to be alone. They were the outcasts of the outcasts.
“Why does he let them live down here?” I asked as we passed another group.
Megan didn’t respond—she was walking ahead of us, keeping to herself—but Abraham glanced over his shoulder, looking toward the firelight and the line of people who had stepped up to make sure we left.
“There will always be people like them,” Abraham said. “Steelheart knows it. Tia, she thinks he made this place for them so he would know where they were. It is useful to know where your outcasts are gathering. Better the ones you know about than the ones you cannot anticipate.”
That made me uncomfortable. I’d thought we were completely outside Steelheart’s view down here. Perhaps this place wasn’t as safe as I’d assumed.
“You cannot keep all men confined all the time,” Abraham said, “not without creating a strong prison. So instead you allow some measure of freedom for those who really, really want it. That way, they do not become rebels. If you do it right.”
“He did it wrong with us,” I said softly.