Sitting up to stretch, the aroma from downstairs met her nose. Her stomach growled. Even though it didn’t understand the possible consequences of staying longer at the farm, she gave into its loud protests.
Quickly dressing into the clothes Clara provided, Irene worked out a plan of departure. To keep to her cover story, she needed to make it appear as if she were heading back to the city. With the woods about the place, that part would be easy.
She slipped on a pair of socks and shoes, overhearing Clara chatting with someone downstairs. Jackson was still outside tinkering with yet another piece of farm equipment, so she knew it wasn’t him. She crept out of the room, across the wooden floors.
At the top of the stairs, she waited for the other person to speak to see if it was a young man’s voice, which could be Clara’s son, returned unexpectedly. But Clara kept up her side of the conversation, describing the seemingly recent events of the farm, giving little opportunity for the visitor to interject.
Irene leaned farther on the banister, waiting to gain some clue as to the visitor’s identity. After a few moments, she grew impatient, and she pushed away from the railing. Whoever the visitor was, she would still need to keep up her act and pretend she was a loyalist to The Firsts.
The wooden steps creaked as she made her way down them, offering little concealment of her descent. The noise caused the visitor, seated on the couch, to peer up. Irene gripped the railing. She was just about to sprint back up the stairs when Clara turned about.
“Irene, my dear, come down.” Clara motioned to her, as she stood frozen on the stairs.
Chris stood from the couch, the smile on his face broadened.
“I’ve done you a favor,” Clara explained. “I called my son and asked him to get you a ride back to the city.” Clara pointed at Chris. “And he found Chris—”
“Parks,” Chris said while keeping his attention on Irene.
“Yes, Parks. He’ll drive you back to the city. I hated the idea of you walkin’ all that way. And with no reliable transportation on the farm, we couldn’t offer you a ride ourselves. I felt dreadful about it.”
Irene looked at her blankly. She could not help but recognize the quirk of fate. Clara’s thoughtfulness, once appreciated, would now be Irene’s undoing. And any hope of making it to the mansion was either put on hold or lost altogether because she’d not anticipated this scenario.
Clara gestured at Irene, who was still stuck on the stairs. "This is Vanessa Houser," Clara said, seeming to think that Irene's hesitation was caused by her waiting for a proper introduction.
Chris slowly moved around the coffee table toward Irene. “Nice to meet you . . . Vanessa Houser.”
It was clear to Irene that Chris had learned that she wasn’t some random employee who’d just stepped out for a bit of air last night at the hospital. The fact that he wasn’t surprised by the sight of her indicated he’d figured out that Clara’s strange visitor was most likely the escapee. And if there was any part of her husband’s competitive nature still left within him, Irene knew he would make up for the mistake of just letting her walk away.
“Well, before you both set off, I insist you stay and have some lunch with Jackson and me. All right?” Clara’s tone had turned to one of uncertainty as if she sensed the tension between her two visitors.
Chris held his view on Irene and nodded. “That sounds great.”
Irene repeated the sentiment as she took one final step off the stairs and began to walk past Chris. He took hold of her arm, stopping her from trailing Clara into the kitchen. “I suggest we play this through,” he said, leaning in close. “It doesn't need to go badly—for anyone.”
Irene stared at him. Kent’s competitive nature was indeed still intact. But there was something else causing his fury. She’d wounded his pride. She’d all but made a fool of him back at the hospital. If she knew Kent, he wouldn’t let that go so easily.
“I’ll play along,” she said stoically, all the while feeling as if she just wanted to scream his real name.
…
Clara’s questions for Chris about his work with The Firsts made it easy for Irene to playact as they ate.
“I’m sorry for all the questions,” Clara said, apparently becoming aware of how she was drilling Chris. “Our son doesn’t tell us much about his work.” She glanced at Jackson, who seemed only interested in making his plate of chicken and potatoes disappear. "I know he's been helping to relocate people, but he never tells us where they're being relocated to."
Chris swallowed his mouthful quickly. “I’m afraid we’re not allowed to say. We don’t want people traveling there by themselves. It can be dangerous with the mines left behind from the war. Not to mention all the polluted areas like Sector 14."
“Yes, it’s terrible what that chemical did.” Clara clicked her tongue. “But because of all that, how do you transfer people safely?”
“I’m afraid that’s confidential as well. But I can assure you that it’s done safely.” Chris glanced in Irene’s direction.
Clara set her fork down and picked up a glass of milk. “Well, I’m happy that Jackson and I can do our part in providing food. We wouldn’t be any good at such a dangerous job. I’m glad you and my son can help those people who are still living in the city.”
Chris smiled at her. “I try to do my part.”
Irene was growing tired of listening to Chris’s nonsense, so she offered him a challenging grin. “So when you arrive at people’s homes to relocate them, do any of them ever resist you?”
Chris hesitated, causing even Jackson to look up from his meal. “Sometimes,” he finally uttered.
“And what do you do when they resist?” Irene pressed.
Chris leaned back in his chair and stared Irene down. “We provide them with the truth,” he countered after a second’s pause. “We explain that the governmental operations are moving to more sensible locations, and for that reason, food rations will soon be unavailable in the city.”
Irene gave him a quick, forced smile, and he nodded as if he’d won the exchange. Irene conceded that his explanation was well rehearsed, so much so that Jackson returned to his lunch without protest. But not wanting to back down so easily, Irene considered another line of questioning.
“Well, explaining that to people—must do the trick,” Clara said before Irene could speak.
“It does,” Chris offered pleasantly. He pointed at his plate. “By the way, this chicken is wonderful.”
Clara blushed. “Thank you.”
It was clear to Irene that Chris was winning on the charm offensive, so as the lunch finished, Irene remained quiet and kept herself busy, attempting to come up with a way to escape. She knew she needed to act before Chris put her in that vehicle he’d come in, which she’d seen through the window. Once placed inside, her chances to get away would greatly diminish.
“Did I do something wrong in getting you a ride home?” Clara asked Irene as they dried the dishes.
“No, no, not at all. I think I’m just a little apprehensive about seeing my husband.” Irene peered back over her shoulder at Chris, who was wiping down the table. “I know I made him worry for nothing.”
“Well, I’ve found that a little lovin’ cures just about anything.”
Irene kept her attention on the glass she was drying to hide the skepticism that was surely on her face. It was difficult to imagine Jackson succumbing to any of Clara’s romantic gestures. But who could guess what held a husband and wife together—those secret pieces of themselves that they only shared with one another. As Irene set the glass back into the cabinet, that thought gave her a way out.
…
Clara stood on the porch and waved one last time before Chris and Irene turned to go. Chris’s vehicle was parked down the dirt road beyond the barn, so they had a long walk to get to it. Passing by the barn, Jackson watched them as he wiped his greasy hands on a rag. He was chewing tobacco and spat it to the side when Chris offered a farewell.
/> “Not . . . too . . . friendly,” Chris uttered.
After getting out of earshot of Jackson, Chris peered over at Irene. “Now, you're going to get into the car without any complaint—just as we agreed.”
Irene glanced back and saw that Clara had gone inside. She stopped abruptly. Her emotions protested as she pulled Chris close. She kissed him softly. Feelings of anger and memories of love created a confusing brew.
Surprisingly to her, Chris offered no protest in sharing the intimate moment, and Irene was somewhat perturbed that her husband would so willingly give into a strange woman’s advances. But after another moment of pleasure, he pulled away slightly, appearing conflicted. “Do we . . . know each other?” he asked, seeming unsure of what else to say.
Irene knew the question was not caused by a moment of recognition but was brought on by general curiosity as to why a complete stranger would do such a thing. But she used her husband’s uncertainty at that instant, knowing a secret about him that he rarely shared. During the war, someone had shot off the tip of his left big toe as he struggled with the enemy over a gun. Knowing the toe had never healed properly, Irene stomped on it hard.
Chris hopped away, peeling off a few swear words as Irene darted in the direction of the woods. She knew her husband was a fast runner, even with his wound, but Irene would beat him on endurance. And with her head start, he didn’t stand a chance of finding her.
As she entered the woods, she quickly realized there was a problem with that theory. The forest was thick with tall weeds and bushes, making it difficult for her to keep up a steady jog.
Coming into a clearing, she glanced at her right arm. Slashes bled from her journey through the slicing branches. She wrapped her hand around one and continued a few more yards, only to be met by a steep, rocky cliff face. She stretched her arms up to begin to climb. Pain coursed across her ripped skin. She jumped back down to allow it to ease before trying again.
“Irene,” Chris called from behind her. “You just . . . need . . . to stop.”
He was clearly out of breath, and determination surged through her once more as he limped closer. She began again with the cliff face. As she made a little progress, she felt Chris grab her ankle. With his handhold, he tried to yank her from the rock, but she held on stubbornly. With the foot he held, she kicked at his face, missing it by inches.
“Quit it, I—”
Chris’s statement ended abruptly, and Irene peered down again to find Jackson standing over him with a thick, short log in his hand. “You can come down now.”
Irene paused for a moment before descending. “You knocked him out?” she asked, feeling both relief as well as worry about her husband lying on the ground, seemingly unconscious.
“I don’t like seeing a man treatin’ a woman poorly,” Jackson explained. “If a woman runs from you, you let her run. Clara's daddy mistreated her, and I was the only one who stood up to him. I saved her from him.”
“Oh,” Irene said, finally understanding the age difference between Clara and Jackson. She bent down to her husband and put her hand on his face. He looked so serene, like the countless times she’d awoken next to him in their bed only to find him still peacefully asleep. But that was long before the war. “Is he going to be okay?”
“He’ll have a bump on his head, but he’ll survive.” Jackson snatched the key fob from Chris’s belt loop and tossed it to Irene. “Best you take his car and get going wherever it is you’re goin’.”
“What will you do with him?”
“Oh, I reckon Clara will have him fixed up in no time.”
Irene exhaled with relief, knowing her husband would be well cared for, but she still felt uneasy about leaving Clara and Jackson in such a precarious situation. "You've put yourself in a lot of danger by knocking out one of The Firsts' men. They may not see it as a gentlemanly act.”
“Perhaps. But I made my choice the moment I entered the woods.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Whatever happened between you and this man is your business, but I could tell the moment he walked through our door it wasn’t good, so your gettn’ going will be all the thanks I need.”
Irene realized she’d underestimated Jackson. He might not have had all the facts, but his intuition was dead on. She nodded at him before racing through the woods to Chris's car.
Chapter 13
Arriving at Chris’s vehicle, Irene disengaged the auto-drive and disconnected the GPS. Charlie had taught her how while at the warehouse. It would remove the chance of the car being tracked. Unfortunately, it had been a while since she’d driven, but it would be a luxury compared to traveling by foot to Kingston’s place.
Pulling away from the farm and coming to the main road, she stomped on the brakes—but too hard. The motion propelled her head nearly into the steering wheel. “And I’m going to need a seatbelt.”
Snapping the belt into its slot, she heard what sounded like a group of vehicles coming toward her down the main road. Putting the car in reverse, she stepped on the gas to pull back from the main road where the trees could conceal her and the car.
The noise grew louder, and Irene leaned forward to look out the windshield. A string of school buses painted black and full of people zipped by her. A solitary military vehicle followed close behind.
So this was how The Firsts transported people. It seemed antiquated. But then again, what else did they need if they had the ability, as Roger had mentioned, to switch off the landmines whenever they wanted?
Irene realized her daughters must have been transported in such a way to the reeducation centers. There, they relearned the basics of reading, writing, and math. While at the warehouse, Irene had come to discover that only a select few were allowed to excel beyond those fundamental skills. The Firsts were not interested in a populace that could outsmart them. They wanted control over everyone.
Gripping the steering wheel, Irene watched the caravan disappear over the hill. The desire to follow it was overwhelming. In doing so, maybe she could find her daughters. Despite the forced memory loss and reeducation, perhaps with love, time, and perseverance, she could draw them back to her.
She drove the car onto the main road and stopped dead. Striking the steering wheel with her fist, she growled. She knew she couldn’t go where that caravan was going—not alone.
…
After sundown, Irene arrived at Kingston's mansion. With no GPS, she’d gotten lost twice while circumventing a few roadblocks. But she’d finally made it and decided to be cautious in her approach by staying clear of the front gate. She parked the car along a section of fence among a bramble of overgrown bushes, concealing it from both house and road. Crawling from the vehicle's hood to its roof, she used the elevation to climb over the high fence that surrounded the estate.
Avoiding the areas where she knew security cameras eyed the property, she jogged across the lawn that was nearly knee-high to a side door that led into the kitchen. She knew a broken security camera conveniently allowed such an approach. Looking through the door’s window, she saw no sign of movement.
But on the other side of the kitchen, a sliver of light outlined the pantry door as if someone were inside the small room. Irene let out a short breath. The pantry held the controls that closed and concealed the tube, but those same controls could be used to open and reveal it. Irene remained in place and waited. As she did, the door swung open. Stepping out, was the man from the mill.
Irene ducked below the window. Glancing up at the doorknob, she knew she needed to do something. She slowly twisted the knob and moved inside while remaining hunched over. When she peeked over the island, the man from the mill switched off the pantry light and walked from the darkened kitchen altogether.
“There’s nothing here, sir,” she heard another man say from the room next door, which was the library. “The elevator takes you to a bomb shelter and a storage room with a fake Christmas tree and an outdoor holiday display, consisting of a sleigh
and nine reindeer.”
Another man in the room chuckled.
“Nothing but a dead end. I told McAllister as much. Gather your gear. We’re heading out.”
“Yes, sir,” the others in the room responded in unison.
Irene nearly laughed from her sense of relief. The Firsts had discovered the mansion. But it seemed they were unaware of what it held: the very passageway to the town where The Opposition resided.
She was thankful for that, but until this group of men left, she would need to put on hold returning to the town to get help for Charlie.
She began to walk in reverse back toward the door, but something jabbed her in the back. Alarm but also annoyance coursed through her. She raised her hands as she was nudged into the library.
“Found something,” said the man with the gun on her. He prodded her farther into the room.
As he did, the man from the mill swung about to face her. He gave her a look of recognition followed by an expression that Irene couldn't quite describe. “Irene Duncan,” he said with a laugh, his odd expression disappearing as soon as it appeared. “It’s so nice to see you—again." He laughed once more from general surprise or the amazement of his good fortune. Irene was not sure which while being forced into a chair.
"You just escaped, and poof, here you are back with us once more.”
Irene didn’t respond.
Unaffected by her lack of a reaction, he continued, “You’ll be happy to know that Chris will be joining us soon. He'll be surprised to see you. I'm sure. He informed us that he tried to bring you in himself, but he apparently found you trickier than he'd anticipated. He most likely called us, realizing that letting you slip through his fingers once more would do him irreparable damage. He, of course, doesn’t know what we both know.” The man pointed at himself and then at Irene. “And I’m sure you somehow used that information against him to escape. But now look at us. Neither Chris nor I had to do anything. You just simply came back to us.”
The Gift of Remembering Page 10