by Jeff Deck
“Don’t think this is the last time you’ll see me,” Marsters says dryly to me as they reach the foyer. “Not like this.”
“Hey,” I say. The agents pause but look irritated. “Where are you taking her?”
“None of your business, ma’am,” says one of them, a tall, bald black man. He shows me his badge. “Agent Harriman of the FBI Boston Field Office. This is government business.”
Well, at least I’ve determined they aren’t some other shadow organization. And Agent Harriman basically answered my question anyway. I shrug and let them haul Marsters off.
I ascend the stairs like an old woman. I need rest. By the time I reach the doors to the resident agency office, I’m breathing rapid and shallow breaths, and I’m holding on to the wall so I don’t fall over. Quick deterioration. I wonder how much of myself I gave to close that Port; after all, one of the elements was the triangular movement of my own body.
McGuinness and Barnes greet me at the door, both looking concerned. Barnes says, “Come on, girl. Get yourself over to this chair and sit a spell.”
I’m tempted, but I say, “Nah. If you could let me lean on you a bit, though, and take me to Benazir and Agent Jeong, that’d be great.”
McGuinness gives me an appraising look. “Well . . . sure. They’re down at special containment right now. With our boss’s boss, Assistant Special Agent in Charge Mark Ivanov. From the Boston office.”
“Help me get over there, then,” I say, too tired to conceal my irritation. Why are these two acting so cagey? Is it because the big boss is in town?
McGuinness cedes responsibility for me to Barnes, who does take my arm. She escorts me down the hall to the big steel door, which is currently standing open. When Barnes tells me to watch the slight rise in the floor as we walk into the special containment area, that’s enough to make me snap, “I see it!”
Barnes’s smile falters. “Of course you do, Officer Allard.”
“Eh. Sorry.” I reclaim my arm. “I think I’m feeling better, thank you for your help.”
Two agents stand in front of the steel cages. One is Jeong. And the other is a pale man with his collar loosened and tie missing. Lank brown hair cascades to his shoulders. Not my idea of a honcho, but maybe when they reach high rank they get to ignore the haircut regs. This must be Ivanov.
“Evening, gentlemen,” I say, offering my hand to the pale, long-haired man. He gives me a limp, clammy shake and a brittle smile. “ASAC Ivanov, I’m former police officer and current security guard and transdimensional traveler, Divya Allard.”
“Oh,” he says through his teeth. “You’re one of the funny ones. Agent Jeong, have you been getting along with Miss Allard here? I bet you have.”
“I’m still funnier, don’t worry, but I’ve been trying to teach her,” says Jeong lightly. His eyes remain tense. I wonder why (this time).
“Good, very good,” says Ivanov. He keeps his smile plastered on, but it’s the emptiest smile I’ve ever seen. His eyes are pretty red, too. Maybe it’s because it’s so late at night, and he just drove up from Boston. But maybe not.
Are all the bosses in the FBI creeps? I just hope Ivanov won’t turn out like Marsters did.
“Anyway,” I say. “Where’s Benazir Allard? Did you stick her in one of these cells already?”
Jeong says, “Yes, but—”
“Can I see her?” I ask. “I want to check in with her. I promise I’ll be careful.”
“That’s out of the question,” says ASAC Ivanov crisply. “The specimen is about to be transported to our permanent research facility in Back Bay. Along with the other two specimens spawned from Katherine Marsters’s adventure into World 72.”
That’s too many novel details for me to take in all at once. I try to work backwards. “Uh, World 72? Do you guys know the place that the Port led to? Or are you just in the habit of colonizing new dimensions with your own classification system?”
“That information is beyond what a civilian is permitted to know, Allard,” Ivanov says.
“Because if the name’s not settled on, I could make a strong case for ‘Graham’s World,’” I go on. “Or ‘Tsoukalasville,’ if you don’t mind a spelling challenge. Kid did the heavy lifting for you, the least you can—”
Jeong says, “Allard, shut up.”
I look at him, surprised. He sounds scared. And this is the guy who stood up to not just one but three Kat Marsterses simultaneously. “Ethan,” I say gently, “I don’t need to be managed. I don’t want to cause any friction between you and your superior here, but—I won’t be cut out of the loop.” I turn back to Ivanov. “I went to your World 72. I think I’m permitted to know a lot of fucking things.”
“Keep this up,” Ivanov says coldly—while still smiling, somehow! “—and I’ll pack you into our permanent research facility too. Go ahead. You’re halfway to convincing me. Who knows what contaminants you carried over from an unauthorized dimension? Who knows what alterations you yourself may have gone through while birthing your own clone?”
I respond in a small voice, “I wouldn’t call it a birthing . . . my vagina was in no way involved in the phenomenon.”
But I hurry to add, “Listen, you can’t just put her in some secret facility—I want to know where she’s heading and how I can get there. She’s fucked up, but I promised I wouldn’t abandon her.”
Ivanov says, “How touching! Making vows to an extradimensional murderer. I’m afraid we can’t be held responsible for those vows, though.” He gestures at one of the cells. “We’re taking her and the two Marsters specimens to Boston. To be thoroughly examined. The research possibilities with these specimens are tremendous. The testing I can imagine is . . . nearly infinite. And if their exteriors prove to be unremarkable, well, we’ll at least make an effort to examine their insides.”
Benazir shouldn’t be excused for her crimes, of course. She should face punishment, and captivity. At least long enough for scientific minds to explore the possibility of psychological improvement and redemption. Maybe she’s flooded with some kind of rage chemical that could be toned down. In that sense, I support the research aspect. But Ivanov isn’t talking about that. He’s talking, clearly, about torture. Not to mention dissection.
That’s not an appropriate punishment in any lawbook I’ve ever heard of. Not in the United Fucking States of America. Call me naïve, but I’m going to insist on going by the book, even for hateful little doppelgängers. Even for the two Evil Marsterses, if I’m going to be ethically consistent.
My anger boils up. This time, I’m not going to hold it back.
“I won’t let you do that,” I say.
Jeong says, “Allard, please. You’re gonna get yourself in a lot of trouble.”
“Et tu, Ethan?” I snap at him. “Guess I forgot what badge you’re wearing.”
“Ah!” says Ivanov. “There’s that infamous anger I keep hearing about. I feel so privileged to witness it.”
Jeong leans close and speaks low to me. “Just stop—there’s nothing you can do here.”
I block the door to Benazir’s cell. “Stand down,” I say to ASAC Ivanov. “Leave her here—and Marsters’s twin minions, too. Do whatever kind of observing you like from here, but I refuse to let you take them down to Boston.”
The agent just shakes his head, still unnaturally smiling, and pulls his weapon on me. I unfortunately returned Jeong’s Glock 26 to him back at the Sheafe Warehouse, so I’m unarmed. And I don’t have the “biplanar” key I’d need to spring Benazir myself.
I guess I figured it would end like this. Now I just need to decide if I’m ready to die to protect a murderous doppelgänger. Everything about this is wrong. In my cop-era daydreams, if I sacrificed myself nobly to save someone else, that someone was usually a child, a kindly grandma, or a hot redhead.
Then Jeong clubs me from behind with the butt of his Springfield, and I go down.
“I have to say,” the ASAC says, as McGuinness and Barnes hurry in to check out t
he commotion, “she’s making this next part a whole lot easier on my conscience.”
His words sound soupy. I was already tired and off balance. Now, with a new blow to the head, I need all my energy just to interpret what he’s saying. However, he’s not talking to me.
Agent Jeong kneels and handcuffs me. “Just remember, you promised she won’t actually be found guilty.”
“I never promised you that,” Ivanov says. “The vagaries of the American court system are beyond even my control. All we can do is try to improve the odds.”
17
I mutter something unintelligible even to me as Jeong and McGuinness haul me to my feet. Not roughly, at least there’s that.
“Put her in a cell, please,” Ivanov says. “We’ve got to arrange the transfer of the specimens first. Plus, if we hold off on turning Allard over to the police for a few hours, we’ll get a greater amount of news coverage.”
News coverage. Their plan for me is coming into focus through the haze. Don’t I feel like an idiot right now for trusting anyone, anyone at all.
The FBI agents open up the door to the right of Benazir Allard’s cell and escort me inside. It may be a steel cage, but it is at least nicer than the holding cell back at the Portsmouth PD. For one thing, the bed is a bed, not a shelf, and though it’s small, it looks soft. There’s even a pillow this time. The toilet in the corner is sadly lacking a roll of paper, though.
“Sorry about this, Divya,” Jeong says. He removes my handcuffs as McGuinness stands guard by the door. Then he digs in my pockets and takes my wallet, keys, smartphone, and Graham’s sketchbook. “May not seem like it now, but this’ll all work out for you in the end.”
“And what about Benazir?” I ask him softly. “How will this work out for her?”
He looks at me, and for a brief instant his old good humor shines through. Talk about an inopportune time for it. “Don’t worry about her. You have my personal guarantee she won’t be abused, dissected, drawn and quartered, or whatever else that asshole was talking about. This is the United States of America. We don’t do that.”
“Bullshit. Bullshit, Ethan. Ever hear of Abu Ghraib?”
Jeong’s mouth sets in a hard line. “Just try to be thankful you’re alive.”
“Oh, and I’m out of TP,” I go on. “Be sure to write out a copy of your ‘personal guarantee’ so I can wipe my ass with it.”
Shaking his head, Jeong leaves the cell, and McGuinness closes it behind him.
My head’s still pounding. And I’m so tired, and frustrated. I lie back on the cot. It’s as comfortable as I hoped. From what Ivanov said, I won’t be staying here long, so I’d be smart to grab some z’s while I can. However, I find that I can’t just fall asleep. I keep thinking about the woman on the other side of the wall.
Eventually I call out: “Benazir. Can you hear me?”
“Not my name,” comes the faint reply through the wall.
“Just wanted to say . . . I’m sorry. I tried to help you. But I guess I’ll be breaking my promise after all.”
“Big surprise,” says the woman with my voice. “Color me shocked. I won’t hold it against you—I’ll just think of all the good times we’ve had instead.”
I’m out of energy, and out of patience for my own sarcasm. I roll over on the the cot and try to sleep. I don’t dream, which is a small mercy.
Agent Barnes shakes me awake. It’s impossible to tell how many hours have passed without any windows or a watch or my smartphone. The woman looks down at me with a pitying expression.
“Morning, Divya,” she says. “It’s time to face your public.”
I don’t know when all the media started to arrive. Maybe last night, sometime when I was sleeping. Maybe during the tail end of my nocturnal adventures and I just didn’t notice them parachuting in. In any case, every major media outlet that I can think of is here. Big news network shows, national publications, news and gossip websites, everyone’s got a reporter and a cameraman here. They’re all shoving their microphones and lenses in my face at the same time.
“Why did you kill your old friends in the police force? Why now?”
“What were you thinking as you were ending Eric Kuhn’s life?”
“Does your family have a history of mental illness, or are you the only one?”
“What can you tell us about the rumors you have a twin sister?”
It’s a rehash of the dark days of last year—except so much worse. The news outlets are so much bigger than before, and so much more insistent. Not only did a college student with rumored kinky sex habits die mysteriously last night, but then a news reporter got his brains bashed out, and four died and several suffered wounds in an unprecedented assault on the local police station. Portsmouth hasn’t seen this much violence since its founding fathers wiped out the Wabanaki and worked African slaves into an early, unmarked grave.
“This sleepy seaside town is shocked by the gruesome events of yesterday evening . . .”
“Residents of this tourist magnet on the New Hampshire Seacoast feel anger, fear, and disgust over the murders and wanton destruction allegedly wreaked by a former member of the Portsmouth Police Department, disgruntled by her dishonorable dismissal last year . . .”
“Many questions remain unanswered this morning as this tiny port city wakes up to blood running in its quaint streets . . .”
The bastards prattle on and on into their cameras as if they could tell their Piscataqua from their Winnacunnet. They claim to have the truth, or to be pursuing the truth, while they’re busy concocting their own version. Just like before, the many wear the cloak of journalism that belongs, in truth, to only a few—all while pushing their own narratives, their own viewer hooks, their own fresh opportunities for massive advertising revenue.
I ignore them all. Whatever Barnes and Jeong might have been instructed, they choose to interpret their task as chivvying me through the media crowds as quickly as possible.
When we finally get inside the car and shut out the media’s ravenous din, nobody says a word. I can’t even look Jeong in the eye—I don’t know how he can live with himself, setting me up as the fall girl for my doppelgänger’s crimes. Does he accept it as part of the job, even after all I did to chase Benazir down and eliminate the threat of the Port? Or is he just too scared for his own job to defy Ivanov?
Maybe more than a demotion’s at stake. Maybe Ivanov is the type who can make people disappear. Jeong did tell me: Just try to be thankful you’re alive.
Even so, I can’t forgive Jeong. I can’t forgive any of them. If I make it out of this alive, I promise I’ll never ally myself with these two-faced Feds ever again.
They drive me to the Rockingham County Jail, over in Brentwood. It’s a dour brick facility surrounded by plenty of concertina wire. As Jeong and Barnes prepare to hand me off to the corrections officers, I break the silence: “I helped you guys solve the murder of Graham Tsoukalas. It was his own Port-spawned twin; case closed. I was promised information about Hannah’s death in return, but all I got was Marsters telling me that the Port cultists must have murdered her. I need names. I need evidence. Where is it?”
Barnes says unhappily, “ASAC Ivanov anticipated you would ask about that. He said to tell you that you made a deal with Kat Marsters, not with the agency as a whole. Sorry, Divya. We have nothing to tell you.”
“You must know something,” I say, with more than a twinge of desperation. “What did you guys hear about Hannah Ryder’s death at the time? What have you heard in the time since? Does the blame fall on the cultists, or is that bullshit?”
“We don’t have that information,” Jeong says.
“I know Hannah was in the Tenacious Trainers,” I press. “Did she have a fight with any of the other members? Anyone with a red winter coat? Please. You can’t leave me to rot in here without a fucking clue!”
Jeong sighs. He opens his mouth, about to tell me something. But Agent Barnes elbows him, and so what Jeong says is: “Be safe, All
ard. Have faith that you’ll make it out to continue your own investigation.”
A new figure enters the room: that famous champion of justice, Attorney Barb Okefor, whom I last saw cowering behind a desk at the Portsmouth police station. The agents leave. And I get my new orange duds and an anti-suicide blanket as I’m processed into the custody of the jail to await my court date.
As it turns out, that court date never arrives. The testimony against me, the supposed murderer of four cops and a newspaper reporter, collapses before the prosecution can present their case. Turns out most of the police officers who witnessed the slaughter keep talking some crazy story about Divya Allard having a sister or cousin, maybe a Muslim terrorist from Pakistan or something, who looked just like her and was responsible for the shooting. These police officers describe Divya Allard as actually stopping this nefarious relative from killing anyone else.
Chief Akerman, the most credible witness, denies all of this and places the blame for the murders squarely on me. But Akerman is outnumbered by the other officers: Milly Fragonard, Rick McLaren, Ben Ulrich (surprisingly!), and Kate Haring.
I’m glad to know that, though they may not be friends of mine, there are still honest, incorruptible cops in the Portsmouth force. I’d been beginning to lose hope. But the chief heartlessly flipping on me is cause for concern.
And as for the murder of Eric Kuhn in Prescott Park? The assailant left no DNA behind, and the only two witnesses disagree on what they saw. Upstanding citizen Margaret Shaw saw me killing the reporter. Not-so-upstanding citizen Solomon Shrive saw not me, but . . . this insane terrorist relative all those cops were talking about. Who knew?
So I walk out of the Rockingham County Jail a free woman. It’s early June. I haven’t missed much in the world except for a progression in the blooming of trees and flowers. The brief spring of New England has paved the way for the long summer.