“Did you go to the concert?” I ask, spotting a Marshal near the waterside edge of the pier.
The music crackles and cuts out, and a voice over the loudspeaker announces, “Due to an electrical problem, Navy Pier is now closed.”
All around, people groan.
“Yeah,” the guy next to me answers. “We were there in the back. How about you?”
“I was up front. It was—”
“Hey!” A uniformed officer comes running toward me. It takes a second to realize he is pointing not at me but at something off to the side—near the water. “Hey! Stop!”
Marshals race by, and I keep pace with the growing crowd heading off the pier. “Stop him!” someone shouts.
Several people crane their necks to see what’s happening. I’m bumped and jostled and I am desperate to stop and look back, but I promised to keep moving forward. So I do.
A woman’s scream rakes over my heart. Four pops crack like whips against the night. I feel each resonate deep in my chest. My eyes burn with tears, but I affix Atlas’s face in my mind and walk away.
Police officers are scattered around the fountain. A dozen black sedans like the one Mr. Webster drives are parked out front, with men in suits milling around. Marshals in their distinctive boots stand near the curb and grab people holding the Stewards’ pages from the crowd. I keep my head down and—
Someone bumps into me hard. The jolt sends the bags I’m carrying sliding off my shoulder. As they hit the ground, the top of the dictionary slides out.
“Are you okay?” a male voice asks in the chaos, and a familiar face with a fussy red goatee leans down to help. It’s Victor Beschloss—one of the heads of the City Pride Program. A man who helped murder my mother. “Here, let me . . .”
I know the second his voice stops that he’s spotted the book. His eyes flick to my face and go wide. “Merriel Beckley?”
He blinks away his surprise, then raises his hand, waving to someone over my shoulder as I reach for the book. “I should have realized. You’re going to have to come with—”
Without hesitation, I grab the book and jam it into his throat. As he gasps and reaches for his neck, I crack the flat cover against his forehead. He staggers and hits the ground. I scoop up my bag and weave through the still-exiting crowd with one thought pounding through my mind.
He knows who I am. Not my Steward name. My real one. Which means they’ll be coming for me now. And not just me. They’ll be coming for my dad.
Nineteen
I have to get home.
There were men watching my house. If they are still there, I can’t go home.
My chest aches as I dash into an alcove not far from a bus station two blocks away and blink back the panic that is clawing into my throat. The public transit card belongs to the Stewards. If they are looking for me, they won’t be able to track my movements. Not with that. But my phone . . . they’ll be able to track that. I can only hope they aren’t doing it already.
Shaking, I dial, praying my father answers and that he hasn’t been drinking.
It takes three rings. “Meri? Where are you? You said—”
“Dad! You have to get out of the house.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I understand you’ve been upset, but you have to come home—”
“Dad!” I peer around the doorway down the street and spot the bus coming toward me from one direction and two policemen from the other. “Listen. I can’t come home, and you can’t stay. They’re coming.” There’s too much to explain and not enough time. “If you love me . . .” I take a deep breath. “If you loved Mom, you will go out the back door and walk down the alley to . . .” To where? The Lyceum is locked down. The Marshals will search Dad’s work and every restaurant and friend’s house we’re known to frequent. There’s only one place I can send him—to the place where all the Stewards who survived the night will be headed—Index’s station. “There’s a building on the North Side of the Loop.” I give him the cross streets and tell him to meet me on the corner.
“Honey, this is crazy. . . .”
“I know it sounds insane, but please. I love you. And I need you to do this. I need you to go.” The city bus whines to a stop at the curb.
The silence stretches. Finally, Dad says, “Okay. I’m going to the alley now. But, Meri—”
“Leave your phone at home so they’ll think you’re still there.” I make sure the police are looking the other way and hurry toward the bus. “I’ll explain everything when I see you.” I hit End and let my phone drop to the ground. Then I climb up the metal step and remain standing like Atlas taught me as the bus drives away.
I take calming breaths that do nothing to ease my worry as I navigate my way back to the cross streets where I told my father we would meet. And when I see him standing near a streetlight . . . I’m tired and sore, but, once again, I run.
He smells of alcohol, but I don’t care. I hug him tight, pull him toward the station, then go through the process of entering the code. “Get in, quickly,” Index says, moving to let us inside.
“Who’s this?” Dewey appears at the end of the hall. His pants are ripped, and there’s a bruise on his cheek, but his hat is still firmly on his head. “We expected you back before now. What happened?”
“This is my dad. I had to bring him,” I say, watching the doorway, hoping to see one person who doesn’t appear. “I was recognized,” I admit, and it all comes rushing out. Spine’s death. Flap being carted away. Atlas and the gunshots and finally escaping from Mr. Beschloss, who saw the book and has most likely sent people to my home.
“Index will make arrangements for both of you.” Dewey sighs and holds out his hand to my father. “Your wife was a fine lady. Merriam is a lot like her.”
“Who is Merriam?” my father asks. “What are you doing with my daughter, and how is it that you knew my wife?”
“Not the questions I would ask, but I suppose we all have to start somewhere,” Dewey answers. When my father blinks, Dewey shakes his head. “Why don’t we go somewhere and talk. I promise I’ll do my best to speak slow.”
“I should—”
“You should go upstairs,” Dewey instructs as Index leads my confused and annoyed father down the hall. “There are others who have returned and are waiting.”
The grief that I’ve kept at bay until now swells. As does the guilt. “I don’t know if I can face everyone. Not after Spine and Flap and who knows how many others.”
“There was always going to come a time when we took a stand. We all knew going in sacrifices would be made.”
“Yeah, but I was the one that picked the locations. I—”
“Just because you lit the match doesn’t mean you control the flame. Think about that before you wallow in guilt.” With that, Dewey wanders off to speak to my father and I steel myself and go upstairs.
Two screens flicker in the dimly lit room. Over a dozen faces turn toward me, but it all fades when I spot the one I most needed to see, limping in my direction. He has a gash on his forehead and a bloody, makeshift bandage on his arm, but he is steady and strong, and I realize his clothes are wet when he puts his arms around me and holds me close.
“I told you to trust me,” Atlas whispers.
“Why are you wet?” I ask, stepping back to look at him.
“I had to take an alternate exit.”
“He got shot in the process,” Stacks adds from the corner of the room. “I had to pull his sorry self out of the water. Now that you’re here, maybe he’ll let someone patch up that arm.”
I assure Stacks that he will.
I have Atlas use his phone to send a message to Rose, then together we sit on the floor, my head on his shoulder, as we wait for her to respond.
More Stewards arrive. There are some tears, but there is laughter and pride at what has been accomplished. One by one they stumble off to their sleeping quarters, but we wait. Atlas with the phone in his hand. I with my head on his shoulder, willing Rose to make con
tact.
Finally, his phone rings, and Atlas passes it to me so I can answer.
“Are you okay?” I ask first.
“I’m fine. Dad isn’t himself. He was so distracted most of the time he barely remembered I was there.”
“Did you find where Isaac and Atticus are being held?”
The long pause conveys the answer before she says, “I thought I had, but no.”
I shake my head, and the air seems to go out of Atlas. Despair floods his face as he closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall. And there is nothing I can do to help him.
Rose keeps talking. “Dad doesn’t have any paper files in his office, but he forgot to shut down his computer. You were right. He knows what happened to Isaac. I found his message to the mayor. He said he understood why Isaac couldn’t be released until the Marshals were positive the flag on his ID was flawed. He then requested authorization to visit the Unity Center to check the progress of the inquiry. His request was denied, and there wasn’t any information about where the center is located.”
Damn. “But if he’s asking to visit, then Isaac has to be in the city. Right?” And if the people we met tonight start asking enough questions, they won’t be able to hide it for long.
Atlas’s eyes open.
“Don’t give up hope,” I say. “Isaac is alive, and we’re going to find him.” We can still find them both.
The truth is out there, I think as the sun comes up. We just have to wait for it to take hold.
Twenty
We assemble in the morning to watch the news for signs that our efforts are taking effect. Atlas stands close to me—his eyes glued on the screen.
There is nothing in the first news report.
Stacks changes channels. Index brings doughnuts, then returns to her efforts of ferrying Stewards who missed the lockdown out of town. Halfway through the next news report my father stumbles into the room with Dewey at his side.
The anchor discusses the weather, sports, the start of the Grant Park summer concert series. Finally there is a story about a strange power surge at Navy Pier last night.
We all go still as the chirpy anchor goes on to explain, “Several breakers were damaged, which forced those enjoying the warmer weather to leave early. But never fear, city officials tell us the problem has been repaired and those looking forward to a boat ride or taking the high-flying tour of the city from the historic Navy Pier Ferris wheel today will not be disappointed.”
An hour later, a more sober newsman reports details of an unauthorized block party near Wrigley Field as well as a gas leak that shut down the streets on the Magnificent Mile. All locations we were at last night. All places we spread tickets.
People who received the tickets will hear the news report and recognize it as dishonest.
“I think this might actually work,” someone says.
I call Rose on Atlas’s phone and learn the police are looking for me and my father. Her father’s blaming the same gang that took Isaac and is insisting Rose stay with her mother instead of visiting him at work. She promises to let us know if she is able to learn anything more before she hangs up, and I have nothing else to do but watch the reports and wait.
At first my father avoids me, but eventually, I am able to corner him in the library on the top floor of Index’s station. He is holding a history book in trembling hands.
“Your mother hid all of this from me,” he says quietly.
“She did it to protect you. To protect us,” I say. I still wish she had done things differently, but after what I have seen and done, I understand why she believed she had to keep her secrets close.
He shakes his head. “I wish I could believe that. She risked her life . . . she thought this was so important that she died for it. She trusted Atlas’s father. She trusted Dewey and all the others. Me, she left in the dark. She didn’t trust me. She could have told me, and she didn’t. And neither did you.” He flings the book across the room, and I jump as it crashes against the window and thuds to the floor. “How do I live with that, Merriam? How do I live knowing that you both chose these people over me?”
I flinch at the bitter tone he uses for my code name. “I didn’t choose them,” I shout. “I had to find out the truth about Mom, and you . . .” I bite back the angry words I want to hurl. The words about how alone he’s made me feel and how there was no way I could turn to him because of all the promises he’s broken. “I had to know the truth.”
“Well, now you do,” he scoffs. “And I know the truth, too. We no longer have a home. I don’t have a job. Some guy named Stacks told me he went by our house and saw people loading our things into a moving van. So the truth is that we’ve lost everything. And now we have no choice but to leave.”
“You want to leave? But Isaac and Atticus are still missing, and there’s so much more we can do to change things. Mom would want us to—”
“Your mom didn’t care what I wanted.” His tone is icy calm and sends a chill up my spine. “I don’t have to consider what she would want now. My first and only concern is keeping you safe, and we’ll be leaving as soon as Index makes the arrangements. She says lots of people who were once part of these Stewards have started over and are living good lives. We can forget all of this ever happened.”
He glares at all the books haphazardly jammed onto the shelves that line the room, clenches his fists, and walks out.
Leave? Forget? Impossible. I start to chase after him, but he’s too angry to listen. I just need to give him time, I tell myself. The truth is hard to accept. He’ll realize how important this is and understand why I did what I did when people in the city begin to share the truth we gave them.
Later that evening my father stumbles into the third-floor gathering room as the rest of us are watching the evening news. His eyes are unfocused. His face is flushed, and the smile he gives me makes me want to sink to my knees. Everything has changed between us, but nothing has changed at all.
Dewey comes to stand next to me. “John McCain said ‘The truth is sometimes a hard pill to swallow. It sometimes causes difficulties.’” He gestures toward my father. “He tried several times to leave the station today in order to get a drink. He wants to forget. So we gave him what he needed.”
“You did that to him? You gave him a drink?” I lash out. “How could you?”
Dewey sighs. “He was willing to risk all of us—even you—to get what he required. Would you have had me do anything else?”
I don’t know. I want to say that Dad would have never had another drink if Dewey hadn’t given him alcohol today, but wanting something to be true doesn’t mean it is.
“Your father needs time. He’s not the only one.”
I glance around the room. Several sets of angry eyes glower at the screens. We had all hoped that our message would be immediately felt. Now, for some, the hope they had been operating on is fading.
“Dad wants to leave the city,” I say softly. “He’s insisting I leave with him.”
“Perhaps that is what is meant to happen,” Dewey says, nodding to the newscasts. “I suppose time will tell. I’ll escort your father to his room.”
I watch him take my father by the arm and lead him out. When they’re gone, I cross the room to sit with Atlas—feeling his eyes and everyone else’s on me. They all saw my father drunk. They all now know what I have tried to hide for so long. Having them know it makes the pain even more real.
I wait for Atlas to say something, but he just takes my hand in his. As we watch the screens, I find myself clinging to the hope that we can still save his father, since I can’t do anything right now for my own.
Index brings in platters of sandwiches. Some of the Stewards talk. Others stare out the window as music plays and the next anchor comes on the air.
We don’t have to wait long before the redhead behind the desk says, “Anyone out in some of the most popular areas of the North Side of Chicago last night got an intriguing surprise. Paper.”
&
nbsp; I hold my breath.
“Pages and pages of papers and books were handed out to unsuspecting passersby in an unprecedented promotion for a new movie.”
My stomach drops. Everyone in the room shifts.
“Real World Studios isn’t sharing details about the title or cast of the upcoming film, but if they are willing to pay the tax on all that paper to get the city abuzz, chances are it will be a blockbuster.” There is a shot of a recycling center with a line going out the door.
A man in a black baseball hat gives a toothy smile to the camera as he holds up a fist full of money. “They’re paying double the normal rate for those red books. Whoever came up with the promotion is a genius.”
The anchor comes back on the screen as several Stewards slip out of the room. “If you know of anyone lucky enough to get one of those promotional books or single-page advertising sheets, please let the city know. We don’t want them to miss out on the extra-special recycling bonus. Now for the weather with Lawrence Tapper. How is the rest of the week shaping up, Lawrence?”
None of us listen to Lawrence as what was just reported sinks in.
“Just because they are calling it a promotion doesn’t mean everyone will turn them in without reading the pages,” Stacks says.
A bunch of Stokers nod, but doubt shadows more than one face. I can tell there are those who wished they had followed Scarlett’s edict instead of taking a stand.
The next day, Dewey spouts inspirational quotes about battles and revolution to bolster us, but by the end of the week, most Stewards have either left the station or disappeared into the city to wait for the lockdown’s end. There are no more reports about the movie campaign. There is only one news report reminding people not to miss out on the special recycling deals before the reporter turns to a discussion of a weekly weather update filled with rain.
I get up each day and turn on the news, even though I know what I will see. I check on my father, who has only gotten worse. Twice he stumbled out of his room railing against the people who killed my mother. The last time, he struck Stacks in the mouth and drew blood.
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