Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The day of the attack, Piper texted me a street address in Mott Haven, a rough neighborhood of the Bronx made rougher by the unrest, with instructions to meet there before caravaning to Pittsburgh. I kissed the kids off to school and confirmed Granny could handle bedtime if needed—"Do I look dead yet?" was her answer—before taking I-95 up to the George Washington Bridge.

My phone's navigation led me to the draggy end of a commercial street. No storefronts appeared open. The largest, a former seller of pet supplies, had boarded-up windows with the message "EVERYTHING WAS TAKEN" in orange spray paint. I steered around an overturned oil drum to park.

Durwood had insisted I bring a gun, which I confirmed in my purse now. I'd been ambivalent about carrying but felt grateful now, the Ruger stiff against my side through the purse fabric.

I hedged up the sidewalk, eyes quick, alert for sign of the Mice. I spotted the nose-eyes-whiskers symbol sprawled over the ceiling of a liquor store, but the whiskers were lost in spreading mold spores: the graffiti was old.

An El Camino turned onto my street from several blocks up. Its front end was wrecked, the bumper sparking asphalt.

Instinctively I ducked into the alley beside the liquor store and squatted low. I was just choosing between calling the guys and drawing my weapon when an egg rolled to a stop beside me.

Really, an egg. I picked it up. White, hard-boiled by the feel of it. The shell read in shaky ballpoint, Nibble around back.

I twisted on my haunches. The back alley looked even more chaotic than the road, overwhelmed dumpsters spilling bags and loose trash, green-glass shards strewn like magnolia pedals in May.

I did draw my gun now. Holding it near my chest with barrel pointed out per Durwood's instructions, I hugged the brick building.

Razor wire separated the back alley from dilapidated clapboard houses. Behind the fence, a pair of dogs with tight-skinned skulls barked. I mastered my breathing, then—avoiding the dogs' eyes—walked along the rear of the building. Of three unmarked doors, one was propped by a square of cardboard. I heard faint noises inside. Peeking back to be sure I hadn't been followed by the El Camino driver, I slipped in.

Now I stood at the top of a stark, narrow stairwell. As I started down, the sides scraped my jacket shoulders. Another door awaited me at the bottom, a sign nailed over its frame.

LEWD BREW.

The original Lewd Brew—the Brooklyn cafe where the Mice had formed—had closed long ago. They must've smuggled out the sign.

I entered to a hive of activity. A guy in ripped jeans was distributing fliers. A barista stood behind an espresso machine, but flicking the tip of a hypodermic needle rather than making coffee. Lighting was harsh from yellow fluorescent tubes, and it certainly smelled like underground, dank with chemical tinges. After relinquishing my phone and gun—I had deleted all the guys' messages, expecting this—I looked around for Piper.

The hacker was off at a secluded booth, her laptop angled toward a cinder-block wall.

I slid in beside her. Our seat was an old church pew, painted purple.

"Ready for this?" Piper asked without taking her eyes from the screen.

"Absolutely," I said.

She glanced over. I thought she squinted at me, but maybe it was just because of the light. The other night, she'd started out wary when I had offered my information about Jim Steed's schedule. How did I know? Pittsburgh? What the hell did Steed travel all the way to Pittsburgh for?