Wildwood Imperium (Wildwood Chronicles 3)

“Oh,” said Carol. “Hello. You’ve interrupted our reading.”

“And I was only inquiring what the book it is you are reading, is all,” said Desdemona. “And bringing you sustenance, which is a thing to thank a person for, I think.”

“The Count of Monte Cristo, actually,” said Carol.

“Ah,” said Desdemona. “How fitting.”

“And thanks but no thanks for the snack mix,” said Martha.

Desdemona glared at the little upstart. Even in the orphanage, the young Asian girl had always rubbed her the wrong way. Too precocious for her own good.

“And we’ll be done soon with this book,” continued the little girl. “I don’t suppose you got my list, did you?”

“Ye

s, yes,” said Desdemona. “I did get the list. War and Peace. Lord of Rings. Encyclopedia Britannica, complete. It appears you have little positive outlook on your time in captivity.”

“Should we?” asked Martha, a sneer on her face.

Desdemona glanced over her shoulder at the man at the desk. “Mr. Wigman say that man will come for you soon.”

“Oh, great. Then what?”

The old man said nothing. He said nothing because he knew precisely what was next. Roger Swindon had told him when he and the girl had first been deposited in their jail cell. He was to be taken back to that place. Back to the Wood. And there forced to re-create the most difficult and challenging project of his entire life, the thing that had changed his life so drastically: It had both given him a new insight into the mechanics of life itself and, in turn, robbed him of his ability to see. He was to be reunited with his old partner, Esben Clampett, and together they were to take on this retreading of their old work. For what? He couldn’t imagine. His mind reeled at the thought of his being a pawn yet again to a ruthless and clinically insane government power; if they had taken his eyes and his compatriot’s hands so that they might never rebuild, alone, the thing they had created, what would they possibly do to them this time, after the miraculous work was done? And where would they send them? In what magic wasteland could they expect to spend the rest of their days?

They needed only to find Esben, Roger had said that. And then it was only a matter of time.

“That’s for Mr. Wigman to decide,” answered Desdemona. “Now, eat your snack mix.” With that, she pressed a button on the side of the door and the panel slid back into place, concealing the two of them once again behind the bookcase.

“The prisoners,” she said, walking back over to Wigman’s desk, “are asking about when Roger will return.”

This made Brad look up. “Soon,” he said.

“How is it you know?”

“He told me they had a good lead on wherever this other guy is.”

“If he has this good lead, why not just give him the blind man? They are now long time in that room.”

Brad glared up at the woman. “Do you think I’m that thick, Dessie? I didn’t get to where I am today just bending over backward for any schmuck who walks in the door. I know how to leverage my advantage. Unlike your old boyfriend.”

Desdemona seemed to flinch at the mention of Joffrey Unthank, and Wigman softened his tone slightly, continuing, “Listen, we’re all friends here. Business partners. But friends don’t get the deals. He says he’s got the key to unlocking whatever is going on in the Impassable Wilderness. He says he’s got access. And he says that whoever can get these two guys together, they’ll be like the kings of this place. Well, Dessie, I don’t know about you, but when one of those guys gets caught in my territory, I’m not going to just turn him over with a please and a thank you. No, sir. I’ve got a horse in this race. And I intend to see him finishing first. No place or show for Bradley Wigman here.” He cleared his throat. “As soon as I see this Esben Clampett character, then we’ll talk about turning over the blind man.”

“I see,” said Desdemona. She was about to dig deeper, to find out what the fate of the little girl would be, when her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the large brass doors.

Wigman looked up from his desk. He glanced at the digital clock on the wall: nine thirty p.m. It was too late for any Quartet-related business. He raised his eyebrow at Desdemona and smiled. “See?” he said. “Asketh and you shall receiveth.”

Brad Wigman pushed his square-shouldered frame away from the desk and rose, striding across the carpeted floor of the top-floor office with the kind of presence of mind that only exists in high-powered executives. He reached the door in no time; throwing it open with an almost inhuman strength, he found himself face-to-face with himself.

Or rather, his own face, reflected back to him, surrounded in a dark-gray cowl.

He blinked twice, confused, before realizing that he was only seeing himself reflected in the gold mirrored mask that this strange visitor was wearing.

“What in the devil?” sputtered Wigman, shocked. “Who are you and how did you get in here?”

The figure looked confused for a second, his head cocked sideways. He breathed an understanding “Ah,” before lifting a hand and removing the mask from his head. “Sorry,” he said. “I forgot about the outfit. I had to get here fast.”

“Jesus, Roger,” said Wigman. “You really gave me a scare.”