Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
KAI
I never go into town if I can help it. And mostly, I can help it. But it turns out, you can't order nicotine patches on in this state. Wouldn't care too hard if I did die of lung disease—we've all got to go some way—but I guess I could probably, I don't know, smell less like an ashtray.
If it really bothers people.
After my drugstore run, I swing by Luther's condo.
The only other reason I've been into town recently, and maybe my least favorite place on planet Earth, save a certain island off the coast of Finland.
But it's where his mail gets delivered and so it's where I need to keep an eye out for any correspondence, as promised.
The place is down a side street, a series of tall new builds with gray siding and gray, flat roofs. I hate it. The place is tomb-like and dark and was even when he was alive, but it's not like I'm gonna host a tea party here.
Inside the alcove of the front door, I shove my usual nail file into the brass face of the mailbox and jimmy it open without too much trouble. There's probably a key inside somewhere, but this is faster and more melodramatic, so.
There's not much. Somehow, Luther Pendragon managed to be the only human being in America with a mailing address not to get scads of junk mail.
A few things that look like bank statements that I stuff in my jacket pocket to look at later, or possibly never, and then one heavy, cream-colored envelope. No return address.
Doesn't need one.
Postmarked France. Addressed in real ink calligraphy.
I swallow, because it's too heavy, heavier than just a letter would be, and wider than what I'm used to getting from the Consistory. A blast of wind carries down the street and spirals into the alcove. I turn up my collar and flip the envelope over to rip it open then and there.
There's no letter inside. No paper at all, actually. Just some thin leather cords and two, flat tokens.
A scapular.
Oh, fuck.