Ronan opened the driver’s side door of the charcoal BMW hard enough that the car shook, then he threw himself in hard enough that the car kept shaking, and then he slammed the door hard enough that the car shook yet more. And then he left with enough speed to make the tires squeal.
“Hm,” said the Gray Man, already preferring this Lynch brother to the last.
The rental truck pulled out with rather more care than the BMW had and headed down the street in the same direction. Then, although the lot was empty, the Gray Man waited. Sure enough, the white Mitsubishi he’d spotted before pulled in, the bass from its stereo slowly liquefying the pavement beneath it. A kid climbed out, carrying a plastic baggie full of something like business cards. He was the sort the Gray Man preferred to steer clear of; he hummed with a restless, unpredictable energy. The Gray Man didn’t mind dangerous people, but he preferred sober dangerous people. He watched the kid enter the factory and return with only an empty bag. The Mitsubishi tore off, tires squalling.
Now the Gray Man turned off the Kinks, walked across the street, and climbed the stairs to the second-floor apartment. On the landing, he discovered the contents of Mitsubishi Boy’s bag: a pile of identical Virginia driver’s licenses. Each featured a sullen photograph of Ronan Lynch beside a birthdate that would’ve had him a few months away from celebrating his seventy-fifth birthday. Aside from the clearly facetious birthdate, they were very good forgeries. The Gray Man held one up to the light coming through the broken window. Its maker had done a tidy job of replicating the most difficult part, the hologram. The Gray Man was impressed.
He left the licenses lying outside the door and broke into Monmouth Manufacturing. He was careful about it. One could easily break a lock. One could not easily unbreak it. As he picked the lock, he dialed his phone and propped it on his shoulder. It only took a moment for someone to pick up.
“Oh, it’s you,” Maura Sargent said. “King of swords.”
“And it’s you. The sword in my spine. I seem to have lost my wallet somewhere.” The Gray Man let the compromised door fall open. A smell of musty paper and mint rolled around him. Dust motes played over a thousand books; this wasn’t quite what he’d expected. “When you were vacuuming under Calla, did you happen to see anything?”
“Vacuuming!” Maura said. “I’ll look. Oh. Look at that. There is a wallet in the couch. I’ll imagine you’ll want to pick it up. How’s work?”
“I’d love to chat about it.” The Gray Man turned the lock behind himself. If the boys came back for something, he’d have a few seconds to make a plan of action. “Face-to-face.”
“You’re quite creepy.”
“I imagine you like creepy men.”
“Probably true,” Maura admitted. “Mysterious, possibly. Creepy is a very strong word.”
The Gray Man moved among the cluttered parts of Gansey’s quest. He pulled down a map rolled on the wall. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for yet.
“You could give me a reading.” He smiled faintly as he said it, paging through a book on medieval weaponry that he also owned.
Maura heard the smile in his voice. “I most certainly cannot. Neither of us want that, I can promise.”
“Are you sure? I could read you more poetry when you’re done. I know a lot of poetry.”
Maura clucked. “That’s Calla’s thing.”
“And what is your thing?” The Gray Man poked at a stack of books on the Welsh language. He was so very charmed by all of these things of Richard Gansey’s. He wasn’t sure, though, that Gansey understood just how well Glendower would be hidden. History was always buried deep, even when you know where to look. And it was hard to excavate it without damaging it. Brushes and cotton swabs, not chisels and pickaxes. Slow work. You had to like doing it.
“My thing,” Maura said, “is that I never tell my thing.”
But she was pleased; he could hear it in her voice. He liked her voice, too. She had just enough Henrietta accent so you knew where she came from.
“Do I get three tries to guess it?”
She didn’t immediately answer, and he didn’t press her. Heart wounds, he knew, made one think more slowly.
While he waited, the Gray Man stooped to study Gansey’s miniature model of Henrietta. Such affection in these tiny recreated streets! He straightened, careful not to harm any of the fond buildings, and headed for one of the two small bedrooms.
Ronan Lynch’s room looked as if a bar fight had taken place within its walls. Every surface was covered with expensive bits of expensive speakers and pointy bits of pointy cages and stylishly distressed bits of stylishly distressed jeans.
“Tell me this, then, Mr. Gray: Are you dangerous?”
“To some people.”
“I have a daughter.”
“Oh. I’m not dangerous to her.” The Gray Man picked up a box cutter from the desk and studied it. It had been used to wound something before being hastily cleaned.
Maura said, “I’m just not sure this is a good idea.”
“Don’t you?”
He inverted a cowboy boot that seemed out of place. He gave it a shake, but nothing fell out. He couldn’t say whether the Greywaren was anywhere in the building. Looking for something without a single description . . . he had to imagine what a loaf of bread looked like based upon the trail of crumbs it left behind.
“I just . . . tell me something true about you.”
“I own a pair of bell-bottoms,” he confessed. “And an orange disco shirt.”
“I don’t believe you. You must wear it, then, next time I see you.”