The Spirit of Resistance

by Michael J. Scott

  Even if they persisted, maybe the worst that would happen would be that Martin would get arrested and wind up in jail, and that had to be better than dead. Attempted murder was surely a better rap than murder or treason. Maybe in custody he’d get the help he needed.

  I tossed the toilet paper into the bowl and flushed, watching it swirl and disappear down the bottom.

  Maybe I was full of crap, and what I’d really done was just sign our death warrants.

  I shook my head, unwilling to accept that. That was Grant talking, not me. And I didn’t have to listen to him anymore.

  I left the bathroom and went to leave the room when I noticed a red light pulsating on our phone, like a miniature police light.

  Someone had called and left a message. Probably while I was out. I crept to the phone, picked it up, and dialed the voicemail extension.

  “Peter, it’s Jerry. You gonna sleep in all day or you coming down for breakfast? Or does one of us have to come up there and get you? You got five minutes, dude, and then we’re coming after ya. Bye!” A second later, the voicemail gave me the timestamp. I checked my watch. That was eight minutes ago. I glanced at the door. Had they come while I was out?

  Gently, I replaced the handset. If they’d come in while I was gone, they’d want to know where I’d been. My heart pounded in my chest. I felt like I was going to hurl again. I had to come up with something. Quickly.

  Or... I could simply go and face the consequences.

  An image of Grant flashed into mind, him grabbing Jerry’s gun and pointing it at him, ready to blow him away. I shook my head. Surely not! He wouldn’t try anything like that, not once the operation was blown. He drew out on Jerry to keep him quiet, to protect the mission. But if the mission was dead anyway, what would be the point? Killing me for the fun of it? Not that I wouldn’t put it past him, but that somehow didn’t seem like Grant’s style. He killed out of necessity, not pleasure. That had to be it. If he were really that nuts, I’d have picked up on it by now.

  Confident in my assessment, I grabbed my keycard and opened the door. I nearly walked into Grant.

  Thirty-Nine

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  “What?” I gulped.

  He put his hands on his hips. “We got things to do, Cherry,” he said. “You coming or not?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m coming right now.”

  I ducked past him into the hallway.

  “There ain’t much time for breakfast,” he said, catching up to me.

  I doubted I could hold anything down anyway. “S’alright. I’m not that hungry.”

  “You okay? You don’t look good.”

  I stopped, staring past him at my reflection in the brass panels around the elevator. “Stomach’s bothering me.” I pushed the call button.

  “Yeah?”

  “Think it might’ve been dinner last night. Can’t keep anything down.”

  He smiled sympathetically. “Probably food poisoning.”

  “Yeah. I thought of that.”

  The elevator arrived and we stepped inside. He said, “You just take it easy today. We’ll play it by ear. See how you’re feeling.”

  I nodded and pressed the button for the ground floor.

  “Don’t want you to miss work or nothing, but you gotta be healthy, know what I mean?”

  “Sure.”

  The elevator doors opened and we stepped out. Just then, three Capitol police cars swept by the front entrance at a high speed, followed a moment later by a fourth.

  I felt my stomach churn again.

  “Look it that,” Grant muttered. “Wonder what that’s all about.”

  I followed him to the dining area, but he kept walking toward the windows. Martin and Jerry followed. Through the glass we could see a squad of police cruisers just down the street, cordoning off the phone booth I’d just used with yellow police tape. I checked my watch and swallowed. Less than six minutes had gone by. At least they were taking it seriously.

  “Must be a doughnut sale,” Martin snorted.

  Jerry chuckled and picked up a jelly doughnut, biting into it until the crimson innards oozed out the other side. When he saw me, he wiped his mouth and said, “What happened to you? You missed breakfast.”

  I smiled weakly. “You don’t wanna know.”

  “Food poisoning,” Grant explained. “Comes from eating that crappy Chink food. Probably grilled rat, anyway.”

  “You’re not helping.”

  “Food poisoning?” said Martin.

  “You got no idea what they serve in them Chink places.”

  I ignored him and spoke to my brother. “I threw up this morning.”

  “Let’s hope it ain’t flu.”

  Grant said, “I once saw a slideshow of these Chinks taking rats, blowtorching the fur off them, carving them up. Time they threw the sauce on ‘em, looked just like chicken.”

  “Make him stop.”

  “Tastes like it, too,” added Jerry.

  “Mm-mmm. Bon appétit!”

  Martin swore. “You trying to make him sick again?”

  “You wouldn’t believe the kind of stuff they used to make us eat in training. Used to chew on sand flies just for the protein.”

  “Now that is sick.” Jerry dropped his doughnut.

  “He’s just pulling your chain,” Martin said. “We ate MRE’s.”

  “Yeah, but the sand flies taste better.”

  “Well, he’s got a point there.”

  “How much longer have we got to put up with you?” I said. Grant leaned back, studying the police activity down the street again. “Thirteen days,” he said quietly. “Then it’s all over.”

  Jerry said, “What are they doing down there, anyway?”

  Our eyes turned and studied the police work. One of them leaned before the phone booth, swishing it with something resembling a feather duster.

  “Dusting for prints,” Grant replied. He frowned, and his eyes flickered in my direction.

  “Must’ve been a hell of an obscene phone call,” Jerry said.

  “In this town?” Martin sneered. “People pay to get calls like that. This place is sicker than Vegas.”

  “Right,” said Grant. “So if we’re all done here, let’s get going.”

  “Where we headed?” I asked.

  Jerry answered. “Colleges. Grant says we gotta visit some. Build our aliases and stuff.”

  “Alibis.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Do we all need to go?” I said.

  “We best stick together,” Grant replied. “That way, nothing will happen to one of us that don’t happen to all of us.”

  I frowned, unsure I bought his reasoning. To me, it sounded more like he wanted to keep an eye on me, but given what I’d just done, that might’ve just been paranoia. Still, it was out of my hands now. The feds would do what they had to do, and with the inauguration moved in doors and security ramped up, our little rebellion would collapse before any real harm was done, or any real crime was committed. Grant could do whatever he wanted at this point. As far as I was concerned, it was over, and for the first time in weeks, I began to relax.

  ***

  Waiting, waiting, waiting. In the days ahead, we did little else. Repeatedly, the rhymes of Coleridge’s Mariner echoed in my head: ‘Day after day, day after day, we stuck, nor breath nor motion; as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.’ Time ground us down, wore our spirits raw, until we snapped at each other for minor slights and paced the floors in frustration.

  For Jerry’s sake, we visited different colleges and spoke to a few recruiters—building our alibi. We worked our security gigs, watched television, and did some sightseeing in town for no other reason than to relieve the boredom. Martin told us it would help to build our familiarity with the locale in case we needed to move fast, but I suspected this was just an excuse.

  Every night before work, I watched the news, listening for any hint of the inauguration being moved indo
ors. The media made no mention of my phone call to the police, but I couldn’t tell if that was because the cops were keeping it on the down low while they investigated, or if it was because no one took it seriously enough to bother.

  Four days away from the inauguration I received my answer. It came while I watched a local news talk show. One of the cable networks was interviewing a former member of the Joint Congressional Committee on Inaugural Ceremonies, and the question of security came up.

  Martin and Jerry were playing Canasta on the bed. Grant was cleaning his .38. I was writing on my blog when the question came up, only half listening.

  “Hey, turn that up,” said Grant. I grabbed the remote and cranked the volume.

  “...the historic nature of the event, security has been very tight. But these men are all professionals. They are all very good at their jobs. We have been inaugurating Presidents now for well over two hundred years, and not once has there been a problem.”

  “Well as you said, this is an historic occasion. Given that, has there been an increase in the number of threats the agency has received?” said the interviewer.

  Laughter. “Of course, I cannot speak to specifics, and we do take every threat seriously. That being said—and understand: every inauguration carries with it an increase in the threat level... the nature of the threats, the number of the threats—all caveats in place, there has been an increase. However, what we have to concern ourselves with is the credibility of those threats versus the confidence we have in our own security. We simply can’t shut down the government every time someone phones in a threat, we’d never get anything done.”

  “It’s not like, say, a public school?”

  “Not at all. Someone calls in a bomb threat at public school, you send the students home and investigate accordingly. But when it comes to the President, he receives anywhere from eight to ten threats per day. Roughly three thousand a year, right? You just can’t shut it down. Now we have seen close to a four hundred percent increase in the number of threats made against the President-elect, and he hasn’t even taken office yet!”

  “Does that have you worried?”

  Laughter. “Not really. Well, maybe a little, but no, I think everything will go off without a hitch. You’ll be surprised how smoothly things go—or you would be if you could really see what we’re up against. I am fully confident in the professionalism of the Secret Service and other law-enforcement agencies. As much danger as he is in as the next leader of the free world, in my view he is also the safest man on the planet because of the extraordinary level of protection that surrounds him.”

  “All right. Thank you for your time. It was great talking to you.”

  “You too, Andrea.”

  “If you’d like more information about the inaugural plans, and to read a sample chapter of Roger’s forthcoming book, you can go to our website, at www—” Click! I turned off the T.V.

  After a moment, Grant said, “Well, I guess that’s good news then, huh?”

  “Yep,” said Martin, returning to his cards. “They got no idea we’re coming.”

  I didn’t sleep well that night.

  Forty

  My first objective the following day was to get away from the others. Evidently, the feds filed my phone call under ‘W’ for ‘Whack-a-doo’ and summarily dismissed it. With a four hundred percent increase in threats, who could blame them? I had to get away from that label – establish my warning as credible – in order to be taken seriously. For that, I had to give them a name.

  Deciding whom to turn in was beyond easy. But making it happen? That was the hard part.

  For one thing, I was never alone. Grant made certain that we always stayed together, at least in pairs. We ate together, worked together, and unless we were in the hotel room, we even went to the bathroom together. It felt like we’d morphed into women – a fact I didn’t hesitate to point out next time we hit the men’s room.

  “Hey Grant, your nuts still attached?”

  “Otis, Jim. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  He eyed me suspiciously. “Why are you asking about my testicles?”

  “Way you got us peeing together, thought I’d double check.”

  He grunted and flushed the toilet. “Can’t be helped.”

  “I know. But just so we’re clear? You start singing Shania Twain on me, I’m outta here.”

  That drew a chuckle, but I was hoping for more. Like an opportunity to sneak away to a phone. It didn’t happen until three days before the inauguration, and it started with a gaggle of teenagers and a swiftly escalating fight in the lower court.

  I don’t know who started it. All I know is a pack of teenagers burst from their seats and flung themselves at a second group. Within seconds fists, feet, and elbows were flying as other customers screamed and fled from the melee. Even on the upper levels kids started throwing down with each other. Someone tossed a chair onto the floor below, where it broke apart and took down a pair of unwary combatants.

  Immediate cries of “Hey!” erupted from Joan and Bill, but their voices barely rose above the din. I took three steps toward the melee, but stopped just short of the battle zone. Joan glanced my way, read my reticence, and gracefully ordered me to the phone.

  “Call the police!”

  Across the court, Grant met my eyes, and just as quickly entered the fray.

  I vaulted over the security desk, tearing the phone off the hook and stabbing the numbers with my fingers.

  A woman’s voice answered the phone. “9-1-1 Emergency. How may I assist you?”

  “This is security at the Old Post Office. We’ve got like a hundred kids in a major brawl in here. We need police now.”

  “Say again, please. You have a fight?”

  “It looks like a frickin’ war zone, ma’am.”

  “I have police on the way.”

  “Send several cars. Seriously. This is getting ugly.” I hung up before she could say anything further. I glanced again at the food court. Someone had smashed a bottle and was using it like a knife. The floor grew red and slick. Grant swung his arms furiously, mowing down teenagers with vicious swings. He slipped in the blood and skidded two feet into the crowd, but my eyes were drawn irresistibly down again to the desk.

  Bill’s cell phone lay quietly on the counter. I hesitated only a moment, before slipping back to the break room and dialing 9-1-1 again. This time a man answered.

  “9-1-1 emergency. How may I assist you?”

  “You people don’t listen. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with you, but this is serious.”

  “I’m sorry. Whom am I speaking with?”

  “Shut up! I don’t have much time. They’re going to try and kill the President on Inauguration Day. They’re going to do it after he takes the oath of office, during the gun salute.”

  “Hang on please, and I’ll—”

  “No! Don’t you dare transfer this call. Just relay the information I’m giving you. Tell them to move the inauguration indoors. His life depends on it.”

  “You want them to move the inauguration indoors.”

  “Look, I know there’s no reason to believe me. I can give you one name. That’s it. That’s all I can risk. Grant Collins. You got that? Grant Collins. He was in the military. Pull him in for questioning, this all goes away.”

  “Sir, I—”

  I hung up, clutching the phone to my forehead and praying they listened. I didn’t know what would happen if the cops came for Grant. He might try to shoot his way out, but I was certain Martin wouldn’t let him do anything to me.

  Certainly I could trust my own brother for that.

  I hurried back to the desk, snagging the first aid kit on the way. By the time I emerged into the main room, the police were pouring through the door and encircling the crowd. I set the towels down on the counter, quickly dropping Bill’s cell phone back where I found it.

  As quickly as it had begun, it was over. The p
olice rounded up the kids, herding them out the door in a line of bruised and bloodied combatants still snarling at each other. Grant, Joan, and Bill stumbled over to the security desk, where I handed out antiseptic wipes.

  “This,” said Joan, “is not what I was hoping for when I came into work today.”

  “Your eyebrow is bleeding.”

  “Shouldda ducked.”

  “Ah hell, no!”

  We looked up as Isaac, the maintenance worker, arrived with his mop and bucket. “No worries,” said Grant. “Joe here will give you a hand. He’s bound to be good for something. Ain’tcha, Joe?” He clapped a bloody hand on my shoulder, squeezing it viciously.

  I grimaced. “Sure.”

  “Way to jump in and help.” He grimaced and pulled up his shirt. An ugly laceration tore across his abdomen and around his side. “Ah, damn,” he said.

  “That looks deep.”

  “It is deep, genius. Gimme that needle and thread there.”

  “Otis,” said Joan, “you’d better let the EMT’s lookit that.”

  He shook his head. “They can’t do nothing for me I can’t do myself.” He threaded the needle and began pushing it through his skin. Blood oozed from the wound. I felt my stomach lurch.

  “Well,” said Isaac. “Come on, Joe. I’ll show you how to swing a mop.”

  I glanced his way, somewhat grateful to see he looked at least as nauseated as I felt. Joan shook her head and nodded to me. “Best get along now. You still gotta earn your keep.”

  “I did what you asked,” I protested.

  She shook her head, unwilling to meet my eyes. “Just go.”

  I took the bucket from Isaac and followed him onto the floor. For the next hour we swept, mopped and scrubbed the floors till the court resembled the professional place of business it had been that morning.

  Periodically, I’d look up. Grant always had his eye on me. He must’ve kept watch on me the whole time, and I could feel talons of panic squeezing my heart.

  He couldn’t have seen me with the cell phone. I was sure of it. He’d been stuck in the fight with Joan and Bill the whole time. How could he possibly have known?

  I was being paranoid again. That was it. This was just some kind of guilt eating away at me. I sloshed the mop onto the floor in a loud spray of water. It was so unfair! No matter what I did, I felt guilty. If I stuck with Martin and Grant, I committed treason and murder. If I turned them in, I betrayed my brother. If I did nothing, I allowed evil to triumph. There was just no frickin’ way out of this!