And just as he was draining the tomato soup, the door opened. All the way this time, revealing Esther, voice gentle and proud. “You’re done now.”
9
Zack didn’t think about the mirrored hallway he walked through as he exited, nor did he think about his reflection, which showed he was his normal, attractive self. All Zack thought about through his post-“killing” delirium was the fact that he still didn’t know what was going on. Moments later he’d learn the most important thing: that he’d passed this final test. He was relieved to hear that the gun had in fact been filled with a tranquilizer of sorts.
“Why didn’t you tell me what to do?” he asked, all his frustrations and confusion tumbling out. “And why didn’t you tell me I wouldn’t have to kill her?”
“Not all decisions you’ll have to make in the field will be so easy,” was all Esther said.
Zack never learned what happened to Jenna. He knew there was some sort of holding facility for sociopaths, but he wasn’t told any details. I of course knew exactly what he was talking about—Jenna was at a prison like the one that housed Ciaran in West Virginia. Maybe it was even the same prison; I wondered if I’d passed her cell during our jailbreak.
Zack wanted to reach out to Jenna, apologize for his willingness to take her life, even if he’d ultimately been spared the horror of it. But he was afraid to ask—afraid what it would mean to the agency if he showed some kind of sympathy toward the people they were dedicated to hunting down. So he buried those feelings, pushed Jenna from his memories as best he could.
For the next several weeks, he was consumed like never before with training, with proving himself to be worthy of the job. He’d given up so much to get to this point: his integrity, his girlfriend, his innocence. If he didn’t succeed, what would this recruitment process amount to? What meaning would it have? And, he wondered, if he failed, would they even let him leave?
The pills weren’t handed to him until the very end of the program. As soon as he took one, he recognized the feeling—they’d been in every meal he’d eaten at that recruitment center. Even in that final grilled cheese and the tomato soup. No wonder that building felt protected by Great Spirit. He and the others had been flooded with uppers their whole stay.
The explanation Esther gave him for the pills was simple. “Like all of modern medicine, fighting cancer, fighting disease—Great Spirit has always had to use the laws of the universe He created in order to act in it.”
“Why doesn’t everyone get to use the pills?” Zack asked. “Everyone gets a chance to use chemotherapy.”
“Great Spirit wants to create a heaven on earth; He wants to create a world where His justice is law. If we give everyone the pills, He’ll just find a new way to enact that justice. And who knows how much worse that next plague might be. Besides, we’re only using them to further His will, to perpetuate His utopia.”
Zack had never been particularly religious. He accepted Great Spirit, like everyone did, because it seemed to be fact, because all those who questioned Great Spirit, publicly or privately, had been Punished so dramatically that questioning itself seemed dangerous. But learning about the pills certainly gave him pause. He was an intelligent guy, and he came up with a dozen logical possibilities for what the pills could mean, what the Revelations themselves could mean. He even worked up the courage to pose one or two of his theories to Esther—armed with a handful of pills that could protect him should Anyone be listening.
“You know, I’ve had those same thoughts myself,” Esther said, her voice full of empathy. “But I still think about religion the same way I did before the Revelations—I just don’t know. I don’t think I’ll ever know. And I don’t know anyone who can give you any more answers than what you’re holding in your hand.”
He’d look back and wish he’d asked more questions. Wish he’d posed his theories to more people. But the words Esther said next were the ones that hit home: “You wanted to make a difference in the world. Well, I can tell you, knowing a little more about this world than you do—this is the only place you can do that. But it’s not the place you’ll find answers to your questions. If you worked your whole life as a cleric, or a doctor, or even a scientist, maybe you’d get a little closer. But that’s not what you want to do with your life. You want to be a soldier. Protect this peace that we have here, assist our prophet with his important mission. That’s what you want to be doing, Zack. So accept that you’ll never know, and accept that you’ve found your purpose in life. That’s the path I chose.
He followed her advice. Soon he forgot he’d ever had those questions, and he accepted the new life that seemed to be laying itself out for him. And it came with a great salary, great benefits, lots of travel. Everything he’d always thought he wanted.
After proving himself on a few smaller cases, he was given his choice of assignments, and he picked the one that would change his life. He was drawn to it because the teenager he was sent to investigate reminded him of himself: smart, charming, growing up in a small town in rural Virginia. Clinton Ciaran Ramsey Jr.
Zack called his parents, said he’d be in the area for work. They insisted he skip getting a hotel. Come and stay in his old room. They missed him so much. He missed them, too; he must have. The experience of recruitment had left him desperate for something comforting, familiar.
So he went home, annoyed Macy, followed Ciaran, and, in the process, saved me. At least, that was how it started.
Zack knew he hadn’t killed Ciaran when he shot him. But he felt guilty, thinking of what had happened to Jenna, and knowing that this young boy’s life was about to be cut short, even if it hadn’t ended. Zack recognized that he was being Punished for his actions, the worst one he’d ever received. And even though he could logically justify that what he was doing was for the greater good, each Punishment he got on the job gave him pause. Made him wonder if what he was doing was really so righteous.
When he returned to the road with Ciaran’s unconscious body, he inspected Ciaran’s truck and found nothing there that implied Ciaran had been accompanied by anyone. He’d arrived at our location after Ciaran had already entered the woods, so he hadn’t seen any sign of me.
He visited with Ciaran’s parents, asked a few questions while posing as a cop that led them to believe Ciaran was dead. But they weren’t fools—they knew he was no cop. Zack was the reason Mrs. Ramsey had been so paranoid, the reason they suspected a larger conspiracy behind Ciaran’s disappearance.
Thinking his job was finished, Zack prepared to go back to D.C. to start his next assignment. His superiors praised him for his excellent work. And then he saw his pills were missing. “That’s when I came to you,” he said. “To save Mary.” I already knew that part of the story.
“Now what?” I asked him. “What happens next?”
“That’s up to you.”
10
I nodded, taking in the enormity of what he’d just confided in me. If he’d been trying to humanize himself, it had certainly worked. He seemed so much smaller now, more vulnerable, and I felt for him in a way I hadn’t expected to. My fear melted away the more he bared his heart. But you have to stay afraid, I reminded myself. No matter what tragic tale he spun, he still reported to Prophet Joshua.
“So now it’s your turn,” he said. “Set me up with your people. I want to help you.”
I’d been dreading this part of the conversation. Knowing I couldn’t confide anything about the resistance without Dawn’s approval, I tried to stall. “I have more questions first.”
His patience was fraying. “Seriously? What else could you possibly want to know?”
I held my ground. “You said I could ask anything. There’s a lot more anything left.”
Zack crossed his arms, frustrated. “You want to move on to how I tripped and fell in my fifth-grade class play? Go ahead.”
“Fine. So to clarify, you’re working for the government?” I asked.
“I’m paid by them at least.”
“But you report to the prophet.”
He shrugged. “Prophet Joshua is the highest authority in the country. And we see ourselves as holy warriors, defending Great Spirit. But there are quite a few layers in between me and him.”
“Do you have any idea why the world is the way it is? Who might be responsible?”
His voice held a challenge. “I don’t. Do you?”
I wanted so badly to tell him all the things I did know, but . . . as much as I wanted to trust him after hearing all that, that voice in my head reminded me that I couldn’t.
I remembered Jude, who would be waiting for me at the train station—soon, I realized, glancing at the sun’s position on the horizon. And a streak of fear went through me. I knew Jude would cover our tracks, but I still worried what might happen if Zack discovered I was skipping town. “Let me talk to my people,” I said. “Give me a little space for a day or so?”
He nodded, buying my excuse. “You know where to find me.” And then he reached for my hand. Instinctively, I pulled it away. As if he was reading my mind, he said, “I understand why you still don’t trust me. I’ve been there, too. I hope I can earn that trust back someday.”
“I hope so, too,” I said. And for a brief moment, I didn’t care if I trusted him. I wanted to grab him and kiss him and let the rest of the world disappear again. Out here in the middle of nowhere, there was only the smell of his cologne, and the way the reddish light of sunset danced in his hair. But I tore my gaze away, forcing myself to remember—there was a real world out there. A world where I had responsibilities.
As Zack drove me home, he looked at me with newfound ease, and a genuine smile. “I’ll see you soon, Grace.” And I felt bad now, thinking that he might actually like me for real. I flinched when I imagined what his reaction would be when he realized I’d fled to a whole other country.
As I got out of the car and watched him drive away, I couldn’t help but replay how his hand had felt on mine, and that kiss in the library. I hated myself for having this crush, for thinking about someone like him that way. You can’t help who you have feelings for, I told myself. Objectively, he’s attractive; he takes drugs to make himself look that way. But soon you’ll be safe, far away from Tutelo, and you’ll never have to see him again.
It wasn’t until I was walking through my front door that I thought about all the other people I was never going to see again, including my father. He’d devoted his life to raising me, his only child, for the past decade, all on his own. I had to say goodbye. But I couldn’t tell him that was what I was doing—I couldn’t risk him telling Prophet Joshua that I was leaving before I made my escape.
I could hear my dad in the kitchen chopping vegetables for dinner, and I walked in to find him alone, no Samantha. I was seized with a sudden pang of grief. It was easy enough to tell my dad I was going back to NYU, to “Skype him from the city” for as long as I could possibly get away with. But I couldn’t escape from the fact that I was about to leave forever, abandoning him with no explanation, no hint of what world we really lived in. I couldn’t do that to him. He never would have done it to me, no matter the risk to himself. And if my cover was going to be blown any minute, this was as good a time to be honest as any.
“How’s it going, sweetie?”
“Good,” I said brightly, for the recording devices I knew were picking up my every word. “Want to go for a walk or something?”
Certainty rushed through me. I was finally going to tell my father the truth.
11
After making my father a smoothie laced with Dawn’s pills—I knew our conversation was sure to plague him with doubt—I finally coerced him outside. When I was sure we were out of earshot of any passing neighbors, I whispered, “I have to tell you something.”
My father, always concerned for my welfare, picked up on the gravity in my voice. “What’s going on?”
I should have been more nervous, but for some reason in that moment, I felt like I could trust him. I was sure that this time, I could confide in him and succeed. Confidently, I began, “You can’t tell Samantha, or the prophet, or anyone. Okay?”
My father’s concern only intensified. “If you’re in trouble, I can’t make that promise.”
“I need you to. I can’t tell you unless you do.” I saw my dad wavering, and I doubled down: “For me. Please. Whatever I tell you, promise me you’ll keep it to yourself. For both of our safety.”
At the word “safety,” I think my father’s parenting instincts kicked in. “Okay. I promise.”
And so I told him what I knew—that the world we lived in wasn’t as it seemed. That after I’d come to him six months ago, speaking of inconsistencies in Great Spirit’s Punishments, I’d met someone (I didn’t say whom) who’d explained everything. Who’d told me that Great Spirit didn’t cause Punishments, that brain chemistry did. That everything was a conspiracy, and it seemed like Prophet Joshua was at the top of it.
At first, my father kept interrupting me: “I thought we resolved this thing with that boy Ciaran . . .” And then, “Who are these people telling you these stories?” “This seems like paranoia . . .” and “Be careful what you say, Great Spirit is listening.”
I kept explaining more and more, starting to ramble, hoping something I said would convince him, but he kept finding ways to discredit my arguments, growing more and more frustrated in his conservative, authoritarian way. Finally, he broke down: “Grace, this is absurd.”
My father’s unwillingness to listen angered me. “Why? Why is it any more absurd than a god who rewards us with beauty?”
He sputtered, “Because Great Spirit’s word is the truth, and what you’re saying is . . .”
“Blasphemy. I know that’s what you think, but it’s not. Look at my face, it’s not changing. Because I don’t feel guilty for telling you the truth, I feel like I’m finally doing something right. I’m done lying to you.” I held my voice steady, still confident I was going to find some way to turn him,
My father stared at me, trying to process all of it. For a moment, I thought I’d gotten through, made some tiny crack in his wall of obfuscation. But then he shook his head, his voice full of a kind of disappointment I’d never heard from him. “I thought I raised you better than this.”
It was like a knife to my heart. “And I thought I could trust you,” I said, voice shaking.
My father’s attempts at kindness reeked of condescension. “You can trust that I have your best interests at heart.”
I began to get very worried. “If you tell anyone, even Samantha, you could get me killed. Tortured and killed.”
“Grace . . .”
“And this isn’t going to make me sound less crazy, but: our house is bugged. Because Zack Cannon is following me, on behalf of Prophet Joshua.”
My father was more confused than ever. “Macy’s brother?”
“Yes,” I said, knowing how insane all this must sound to him, and deeply regretting that I’d started down this path.
My father was grasping at straws now. “What can I do, how can I help you? A group at the worship center, or some kind of therapy . . . ?”
I tried to stanch the bleeding, find a way out of this conversation. “You can keep this secret. Okay? I’m going to go back to college, we don’t ever have to talk about it again . . . I just . . . I thought I’d give it a shot, I guess, telling you the truth. Because you’re the person I’m closest to in the whole world, and I didn’t want to just leave you in the dark.”
My dad saw how upset I was and gave me a hug. “I’m sorry you didn’t feel like you could come to me. But we’re going to get you some help, okay?”
I nodded, trying to placate him. “I’ll go to therapy in New York, I promise. But please, just humor me—don’t tell Prophet Joshua, or Samuel, or Samantha, or the Cannons, or anyone what I just told you? Just on the off chance that I’m right?” I quickly added, “Or at least, because it’ll help keep me sane, knowing I can trust you?”
My father nodded. “You can trust me.” I wanted to believe him. But I wasn’t sure why I’d ever thought I could.
I looked at my watch. Jude’s cab would be coming in an hour, I didn’t want this to be the way I left things with my father forever. “I have to go soon. Should we go make dinner? No more talking about this?”
“Because the house is bugged,” my dad said with a smile.
“Right.” I sighed with relief. He was going to humor me.
We had a perfectly pleasant dinner . . . a little strained, as could be expected. While he was out of the room, I mixed some uppers into his coffee grounds, just in case our conversation left any lingering doubts.
When the time came, I hugged him goodbye, under the guise of going back to NYU.
“I guess this means I won’t see you in South Africa then,” my dad said, and I could see the sadness on his face.
I shook my head, wishing so badly that things could be different. “I’m sorry. I love you, Dad.”
“I love you, too.” But the way he looked at me—something was different. Something was broken and would never be the same. He would never see me as his perfectly pious little girl. He judged me now. I’d stepped over his imaginary line between “us” and “them,” and while I knew he would always love me, it would never be in the same way. We would never be on the same team again, Great Spirit’s team.
I held back tears as I prepared for a lifelong trip to an unnamed international destination. I emptied my pockets, like Jude had asked, except for a few twenties for transportation and emergencies. Instinctively, I also grabbed a bottle of pills and the green card from Samuel. My gut told me those things might still come in handy.
Finally, I stepped into my driveway as a cab pulled up outside, right on time. I got in it—I didn’t want to, but I got inside. And then it drove away to the beginning of the rest of my life.
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