Billy the mop boy at the 7-Eleven.
He had gotten a good look at Billy the mop boy’s face, not so with Billy the waitress. He scrunched his eyes tighter as though refocusing a camera. The chin was the same on both. The line of the jaw. And the hands. People always forgot about the hands, but they could be as distinctive as a fingerprint if you knew what to look for.
Long, delicate fingers, short right pinky, no nail polish on the waitress, split nail on the left index, small wart on the right thumb. Same person absolutely.
He opened his eyes wide in surprise.
He had just seen Billy. In color. For the first time.
Gray.
For him, as for many folks, it was a confusing color. It lent itself to no particular interpretation. It was a color that could go one way or the other. People desperately wanted the world to be clear-cut in black and white. It made life so much easier: Tough decisions faded away; everything was nicely organized and cataloged. And so were people. But the world was not like that. And neither were the people who inhabited it. At least for those who bothered to explore its complexity.
Its grayness.
Now, for him, Leopold was yellow. Yellow was not ambivalent. Yellow was hostile, cunning. Sometimes colors were spot on. As clear-cut as numbers, actually.
The pieces were falling into place.
But why target me? What the hell did I ever do to you, Belinda/Billy? What?
Their only contact had been at the institute twenty years ago. His family had been killed more than sixteen months ago. Quite a gap. Why the wait? Because she had run into Sebastian Leopold during that time? And he had given her a way to get back at Decker? Avenge herself? But for what?
The institute. Ground zero for them both. Interaction limited. Words spoken directly to each other? Exactly none.
He closed his eyes again. He had to get this right. He had to be thorough. Wyatt had a reason for everything. She had been amazingly meticulous. The symmetry was spellbinding in its depravity. In its horror. So there had to be a reason for this too.
His DVR whirred back and forth. Images flashed past with astonishing speed, but he missed nothing. He saw everything that was there as though it was happening to him right then and at normal speed. No, in slow motion. Every word, every moment, everything moving at the pace of a snail.
In the group sessions he had spoken of his future. His hopes and dreams. But so had everyone else. Well, everyone except Belinda. She had been given the opportunity, but had not volunteered any information about her future plans. She apparently didn’t have any future plans, at least not then.
Well, that changed.
Some knew of Decker’s past, of his trauma, his near death on the playing field. He had not known of Belinda’s plight, though perhaps she didn’t know that. She might have thought that if she knew about him, he knew about her. But what did that matter, really?
He opened his eyes, his brow creasing with the failure of his mind—his extraordinary brain-traumatized, bastardized mind that had been born to him after his death and resurrection—to solve the one conundrum that would make all the other pieces fall into place.
He left because he could not stay here.
Thirty minutes later he walked into the Burlington police station. Captain Miller was there. Bogart had already briefed him on the trip to Utah, Miller informed him.
“You don’t look so good, Amos,” Miller said.
“Should I?” Decker said back.
Miller tapped his head. “It’s not coming?”
“It’s there. I just can’t make it tell me what I need to know.”
“You have an exceptional mind, but it’s still a lot to figure out.”
“Well, someone has to. And if it’s not me, it has to be someone else.”
“You think they might pull up their tent and leave?”
“Not yet.”
“What are they waiting for?” asked Miller.
“Me.”
He went down to the evidence locker and filled out the necessary paperwork with Miller’s authorization to step inside the locker and look through the evidence gathered thus far. Since he was no longer with the police, someone had to accompany him.
“In my room getting ready to go to sleep.”
“I’ll check back in the morning,” said Bogart.
“Right,” said Decker.
He sat down at one of the laptops and logged in using the password he had previously been given. He went to the “Justice Denied” website. There was a program there to set up personal messaging accounts so that people could correspond privately with the organizers of the site. He set up a username and password, filled out a form, and made a request.
They had to monitor it, he thought. There was no way they could