David Baldacci: The Finisher

“I know who he is,” replied Thansius. “I am contemplating whether he needs to be here or not.”

I gripped John’s hand because I could sense the overwhelming fear in him. “We were just visiting our parents,” I said.

“Again, a fact of which I am aware.”

Thansius looked older up close than he did from a distance. Even though he sat in the shadows of his seat, I could clearly see his face. It was heavy, lined with worry, the eyes small and the flesh around them puckered. Still, even with his full beard, the face seemed too slight for the body’s great bulk. His hair was long and an odd mix of cream and silver, as was his beard. It looked clean and smelled like meadow flowers. Ordinarily, I would welcome that scent. Right now it made me feel queasy.

“I think I prefer him to wait outside,” said Thansius at last.

“I would like my brother to stay,” I replied, and then I held my breath. I had no idea where that had come from. Talking to Thansius was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Talking back to Thansius was unthinkable.

Thansius cocked his head at me. He didn’t look angry, simply bemused. I would take bemusement over anger from him.

“And why is that?”

“In case whatever you have to ask me concerns him. Then I will not have to repeat it because I am certain I cannot match your eloquence, Thansius.”

I said this in all sincerity. Thansius was a very learned Wug with prodigious speaking skills. We all loved to listen to him, even if we did not always understand what he was saying.

The bemusement turned to a half smile and then his face became a stone.

“Quentin Herms,” he said. “He cannot be located. My deputy, Jurik Krone, has been to see you about this.”

I nodded, my heart whacking firmly against my rib cage.

From his pocket Thansius withdrew an object. I knew what it was before he even showed it to me. My grandfather’s ring. Seeing it close up, the memories came flooding back to me. I had never seen the image on the ring any other place except on the back of my grandfather’s hand.

Thansius held it up so John and I could see it fully. “It is quite an interesting design,” he said.

“Do you know what it means?” I asked.

“No, I do not. I doubt any Wug does, other than your grandfather. Virgil kept himself to himself on matters such as these.” He pocketed the ring and edged forward, his wide knee nearly scraping my bony one. “But it was found at Herms’s cottage.”

“He was friends with my grandfather, so he probably gave it to him,” I replied.

“Before his own family?” said Thansius skeptically.

“As you said, my grandfather kept such matters to himself. Who knows what he might have thought or done?”

Thansius seemed to mull over this for a few moments. Then he said, “Quentin Herms was your mentor as a Finisher.”

“Yes, it’s true. He helped me learn my job.”

“Did you like him?”

This was a strange question, I thought, but I answered truthfully. “I did.”

Still, my insides wriggled like worms exposed to light.

He stroked his beard with one large hand. I studied that hand. It was strong-looking, but soft. At one time he might have worked hard with those hands, but not for many sessions now.

He asked, “No mention of anything from him? No indication that he might go off … ?”

I chose my words carefully. “Where is there to go off to?”

“No message left behind for you?” he asked, ignoring my query.

I could see danger in Thansius’s features, the curl of his hand, so close to a fist, the bunched muscles under the blood robe. I furrowed my brow and willed my brain to do the best job of answering without really saying anything of importance. Transparency is fine, if you happen to be a window.

“I don’t know what he would have to leave for me.” This also was perfectly true. I didn’t know what he had left for me.

He studied each of my words, it seemed to me, like they were a puzzle that needed solving. He stared at my face so intently it felt like my skin was melting away, allowing him to see into my soul.

He sat back and stared at the floor of the carriage for nearly a sliver. “You and your brother may be on your way.”

We should have left right then, but I needed to say something, and although half of me was terrified to do so, the other half of me won out.

“Can I have the ring, Thansius?”

He stared at me. “The ring?”

“Yes. It belonged to my grandfather. And since he’s gone and our parents are, well … we’re the only family left. So can I have it?”

I could sense John holding his breath. I held my own, awaiting Thansius’s answer.

“Maybe one light, Vega, but not now.”

He opened the carriage door and waved a hand, beckoning us to exit.

We climbed out as hastily as possible, although John could barely move his legs.

Before the carriage door closed, I found Thansius staring at me. It was an enigmatic look, a cross between pity and remorse. I could understand neither end of it. Then the door closed, Bogle flicked the reins and the carriage rumbled off.

I pulled John along in the direction of the Loons.

I had a lot to do, and not much time to do it. My mind whirled with all that lay ahead of me. I was more excited than afraid when a little less excitement and a little more fear would have been far smarter.

By the time we got to the Loons, John had stopped trembling from our encounter with Thansius. I’m not sure I had. At least the inside of me hadn’t. But I very much focused on what I would be doing later.

Cacus Loon opened the door for us. He had beetle brows, a low forehead and hair that had not been washed for at least a session or maybe two. His pants and shirt were as greasy as his hair, and he had a habit of forever twirling the ends of his enormous mustache, which seemed to originate inside his flaring nostrils. Though Roman Picus owned the building, Cacus Loon was the lodge keeper.

I nodded at him as he moved from the doorway to let us pass. I could tell he was itching for gossip about Herms. Loon followed us into the main room of the lower floor. It was large and contained a long table where we took our meals. The walls were logs chinked with whatever Loon had found to keep them stuffed with, and the floors were uneven, warped, worm-eaten wooden planks.

A kitchen adjoined it where Loon’s wife, Hestia, spent much of her sessions doing the work that Loon told her to do. This included making meals, doing the wash and making sure that Loon had what Loon wanted.

“Stacks,” said Loon as he fired up his pipe bowl, and the smoke streamed high from it.

I didn’t look at him. I was aiming for the stairs, where our room was. We shared it with other Wugmorts who snored loudly and failed to bathe regularly.

“Stacks,” he said again. “Quentin Herms.”

I turned to him, resigned that he would simply follow us until his queries were answered.

“They say he has gone off,” Loon continued, puffing on his pipe so hard the smoke billowed out, nearly hiding him from our view. It was as if he had suddenly combusted, but I was just not that lucky.

“Where would he go off to?” I asked innocently, taking the same tack I had with Thansius though my heart wasn’t really in it. Loon was not nearly the challenge mentally that Thansius presented. He was simply a git.

“You work at Stacks.”

“Over a hundred Wugs work at Stacks,” I said. “Go ask them.”

I pulled John upstairs with me. Thankfully, Loon did not follow.

WE WENT DOWNfor last meal when the darkness was gathering across Wormwood. Twenty-eight Wugmorts had beaten us down to eat and were already seated at table. John and I squeezed into the last two seats as Hestia, short and thin, scurried around with trays filled with plates that actually had little food on them. I eyed the other two Loon females, still youngs, who labored in the kitchen. They were also small and skinny, their faces smoky from the kitchen coal fire, just like their mother’s.