Page 82 of Capitol Matters

“What do you need it for, anyway?” Ripley asked,then clarified, “The cure. You aren’t sick.”

“One of the investigators is dying,” I replied.

The pseudo-healer’s expression had returned to impassive and stayed that way. “How unfortunate,” he said.

“Look, I don’t even like the guy.” I huffed a breath. “But Holland’s pretty torn up about it, so I figured I would try.”

Ripley stepped around me to the closet and slung it open, rifling through a swath of fabric so uniformly black I was surprised he could tell one garment from the next.

“As surprised as I am by what appears to be an altruistic gesture, my terms remain.” He pulled out a long-sleeved thermal and tugged it on over his ratty tank top. Rolling his bony shoulders, he concluded, “No apology, no cure.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“For?” he pressed.

I growled. “Being a barmy prat.”

Ripley snickered and nodded. “For being a barmy prat.”

He wandered into the bathroom area and stooped below the counter to dig into the small, square trash can.

“This is an improvement, though,” he muttered. “You’re doing some good for a change.”

“You know we’re criminals, right?” My eyebrows raised. “Doing good isn’t usually on the agenda.”

The sound of the plastic liner swishing accompanied Ripley’s search of the garbage. “No, but doing what is necessary so you can live with yourself very much is. We all have our own tolerance for evil, Mister Farrow. Fromwhat I’ve heard, you are quickly reaching yours.”

I’d bet money Nash had been talking. He and Ripley got along, and he’d had ample time to worry since my bathroom breakdown last week. I had the missed calls to prove I’d been on his mind. None of which I’d returned because I kept hoping he would forget the absolute mess I’d been.

“Here we are.” Ripley straightened, holding an empty soda bottle aloft. Untwisting the cap, he put it to his lips and spit. Saliva strung from his mouth to pool in the bottom of the bottle.

I gawked, speechless as he sealed the container and offered it to me.

When I didn’t immediately reach for it, Ripley gave the soda bottle a shake, splattering the inner walls with viscous fluid. “Do you want it or not?” he asked.

It wasn’t for me, I reminded myself. It was for Tobin. The douchebag investigator who totaled my car. I would let him drink Ripley’s super spit, then I would laugh about it all the way home.

“Sure, man.” I grabbed the bottle. “And thanks.”

The quarantine center hada sort of nuclear fallout shelter vibe. Biohazard signs were plastered across every surface along with frequent reminders to wear masks and wash hands. The staff wore various types of PPE, including the receptionist manning the front desk who peered at me with suspicion as I gave her my name.

“As intheFitch Farrow?” Her eyes narrowed.

I nodded.

She wanted to kick me out, I could tell. Dial up the Capitol and cash in on that sweet bounty payout. But the price had been removed from my head—or rather distributed to one Jacoby Thatcher, who split his prize money with me. The receptionist could call whoever she wanted, though I preferred Maximus and his brood didn’t know I was here.

Hallways branched right and left from this central room. It was a guest waiting area, I gatheredfrom the rows of chairs and side tables that might have offered magazines before it became too dangerous to share such things between strangers. The air reeked of bleach, which explained the blindingly white palette of the place. Either because it started out that way or had been scrubbed clean of color in the endless war on germs.

Strange to know the cause of all this mess was one man playing zombie video games in a motel room ten minutes away. During the cab ride here, I’d thought about my experiences with Ripley and my assumptions about him, and I realized something. The plague wasn’t deadly because it wasn’t intended to be. That meant, unless Ripley’s magic wasn’t potent enough to kill, he was holding back. Not unlike what Donovan and I were doing by keeping Maximus’s victims miserably alive: allowing short-term suffering for the reward of survival afterward.

“Who would you like to see?” the receptionist asked.

“A coworker,” I said, then realized she needed more to go on than that. “Tobin Moreno.”

“Room 113,” the receptionist said. “And mask up, please.”

The soda bottle jutted awkwardly out of the back pocket of my jeans. Luckily there were no signs banning outside food or drinks, or I might have given up on this mercy mission.

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