After the End(80)

“Juneau . . . ,” he says like a question, and waits.

“Yes?” I ask. My brows knit in confusion. I don’t recognize his body language. He could be speaking Swahili for all I understand.

“Juneau what?” he asks.

I stare at him.

“Your last name,” he says finally.

I exhale. “Oh! Newhaven,” I respond. Everyone in the clan knows one another’s last names, but we never use them except in ceremonies, and I’ve never actually had someone ask mine.

“Juneau Newhaven, you are from . . . ,” he asks, and this time I respond automatically.

“Denali, Alaska.”

He nods, acknowledging the fact that I’m playing along with his Q&A.

“Good, good,” he says. And then leaning farther forward, so his elbows are on his knees, he asks softly, “That means, I suppose, that you know a man by the name of Whittier Graves?”

I gasp, not even trying to hide my surprise.

“Yes, you do know him,” he says with a jolly smile, like we’re sharing a joke. “Well, I’m glad to hear it. I’ve been wanting to talk to him for the last few weeks, but it seems like he has disappeared. Along with the rest of your—what did he call it?—your clan.”

Facts start pinballing around in my head. This man knows of Whit. He knows about our clan, and where we live. He knows enough about me to have me followed.

Instead of launching my own questions, I wait quietly to hear what other details this man will give away.

“Mr. Graves approached me about a drug he and some colleagues developed some time ago. He called it Amrit. Does that sound familiar to you?”

I shake my head no.

“I expressed interest in purchasing the formula for Amrit. Even offered to come to Alaska to visit your clan and see how his field study had gone. Mr. Graves refused, insisting on personally bringing me the data. We made an appointment to meet here a month ago. Mr. Graves did not show. As you can imagine, that had me worried.”

Mr. Blackwell leans back in his chair and crosses his arms across his chest with a pained expression, like it’s difficult for him to tell me this story. But from my study of human facial expressions and body language, I see anger behind his careful words.

And he is watching me as carefully as I watch him: studying my face for any change of expression. Seeking any clues he can gather from my reactions. I relax my facial muscles and, leaning back in the armchair, do the same with the rest of my body. I already gave away the fact that I know Whit. I don’t want to accidentally give him anything else.

“I sent some men to Alaska to try to find him. We had a clue of where he was. Traced the calls he made by GPS to a cave near Denali, where they found residue from a recent fire.”

I can’t help it—my eyes widen, and I suck my breath in. This man tracked us down to our territory. He knew where we were.

Mr. Blackwell raises an eyebrow—he’s curious. In my surprise at hearing him describe Whit’s cave, I gave something away. The edges of his lips move upward just a millimeter, but he readjusts his poker face and continues.

“A tracker I hired followed a path from the cave to an abandoned village some miles away. Twenty or so yurts. Lots of dead dogs killed by gunshot. A few farm animals, chickens, goats, and pigs, wandering wild in the ruined encampment and the woods nearby.”

He comes to a stop and waits for me to say something. I formulate my question carefully.

“Why would you come after me—one of the clan children—if Whit . . . Mr. Graves is the one with the information you need?”

“I was told by a reliable source that you are Mr. Graves’s understudy—that he is your mentor. I was told that if I couldn’t find him, you may be able to give me the same information. I don’t know if Mr. Graves went directly to one of my competitors, but I certainly won’t lose both of you to another drug company.”

“How did you know I wasn’t with the rest of my clan?”

“A tip from the same credible source,” he says, and then sits silently again, waiting.

“Exactly what information are you trying to get?” I ask.

“As I mentioned before—the chemical makeup of the drug Amrit,” he says. “The formula for the drug.”

“See, that is what confuses me—what I haven’t understood since I overheard Miles talking to you. My clan doesn’t make drugs! We don’t use any kind of medicine besides first aid!” I say, trying to steady the anger in my voice. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, but I think you do,” Mr. Blackwell shoots back. “Tell me something. Are there others in your clan with the same iris deformation you have?”