Shoreline

by Carolyn Baugh

“Yes, on some level,” Chid affirmed. “On some levels I was dead serious. But that doesn’t mean I should say everything I’m thinking. Sometimes I need to remind myself to invoke the filter.”

  Nora smiled. “It’s a problem I have myself,” she admitted. “Do you think we’re all getting out of this alive?”

  “Not a chance,” he answered swiftly.

  “Filter?” Nora prodded.

  “Oh yeah … Nah, not a chance.” Chid smiled. “Filtering doesn’t mean lying—especially not to an Egyptian. Y’all got the curse of Ra and the eye of Horus and whatnot.…”

  Ben walked over to where they were sitting. “Ford, that phone number thing might have saved the day,” he said. “Sanchez seems to be making progress. Baker believes we’re closing in on him because we’ve figured out his phone number. He’s a little paranoid about it.”

  Nora nodded in heavy silence.

  He turned his green eyes on her, the concern there intense. “Are you okay, Nora? That scene with Sanchez wasn’t like you.”

  She looked down at the marks still on her wrists from the cable ties. Where the skin wasn’t raw it was bruised. She held her wrists out to Ben.

  “Without April Lewis, I would probably still be in the barn.”

  Ben gave her the I want to hug you but we’re at work look again.

  Chid said, “Strictures against workplace affection tend to slacken during an apocalypse. Hug your woman, Benjamin.”

  Ben obediently wrapped an arm around Nora’s shoulder. “I’m glad April Lewis was there to help you,” he said seriously. “I’m sorry.”

  Nora allowed herself to rest her head for a moment against Ben’s chest.

  “Thing about this situation,” Chid said, “there really isn’t any time to process. We’re dealing in three days with more than some agents deal with in a lifetime.”

  “Three days, four days,” said Nora thoughtfully. “If we mess with the schedule, will he adjust it or just stop?”

  Chid regarded her. “Do you mean, if there were thirteen acts instead of fourteen, would the paradigm fail and all be rendered meaningless?”

  She glared at him. “How do you even have time to put those words together? Jesus, that’s … yes, I’m pretty sure that’s what I just asked.”

  “I don’t know,” he answered simply. “The synagogue bomb was defused and so was one act less, but then they kidnapped two federal agents. Technically, one might have sufficed to constitute an act. So I presume it balanced out.” He shrugged and looked apologetic, then said, “If Pete is part of the program and we save him, what will the contingency plan be? No idea.”

  Three hours into the occupation, the sidewalks were crowded with people. Some stood with anti-hate placards raised high. Others held up pro-gun slogans and white power symbols adorning old campaign posters.

  Ben watched them too. “It’s a new age,” he said. “Protest is the new brunch.”

  Nora checked her watch, feeling useless, feeling trapped. The helicopters hanging overhead were fraying her nerves. At one point, a media helicopter got too close to the sleek gray CIRG chopper and a cry went up from the onlookers as the latter had to soar high into the sky to avoid an accident.

  Police officers and Bureau agents alike kept trying to convince the onlookers to move back, to put enough distance between themselves and the courthouse that they would avoid injury in case of an explosion. Nora herself had been as assertive as she knew how to be without actually throat-punching citizens.

  But to no avail. The scene was fascinating for people, and they would not be persuaded that their lives were in danger. Perhaps the memories of the last anti-government occupation were too deeply embedded as a laughable, sex-toy-steeped event.

  To make matters worse, television cameras were stopping anyone and everyone and allowing them minutes of fame that aspiring actors the world over would never attain.

  A man in a “Make America Great Again” T-shirt was railing into a microphone. “No one’s had the courage til now to truly take a stand. I think that Gabe Baker is the bravest man in America. American jobs should be for Americans. We need a white homeland just like he’s sayin’. There shouldn’t be all this race-mixin’. Ending up with a bunch of mutts. Ending up with no culture. No future. I salute him and his movement.”

  Nora watched as the interviewer, a rail-thin blonde woman with orangey pancake makeup, pulled the microphone away. She looked ill.

  Chid, Ford, and Ben had all given up and sought shelter in the air-conditioned car. They had in fact intended to go back to the office and camp out in the conference room, but Nora had insisted that being close to the scene would allow for more effective action should any be necessary. Each man had grudgingly agreed, although Ben insisted on getting sandwiches and sodas and forcing Nora to eat and hydrate. They all sat staring at their laptops; the two men in the back tapped away on their keyboards with rather more ferocity than Nora and Ben. The task of unraveling the iPhone’s mysteries was still key.

  Nora sat in the front seat with her legs folded under her. She responded to some frantic text messages from her father and Ahmed and even from Rachel, all of whom wanted to make sure she was okay in the midst of all the nationally televised upheaval. She texted Anna and Sheila, hoping they would both relent and let them stand vigil out there, but both refused to back down. She sent a few text messages to Ben, who, sitting next to her in the front seat, would shake his head and smile each time one came through to his phone.

  At last she sighed, frustrated, and dropped the phone in her lap. “Why is there no Stuck in a Chevy Malibu with Three Sweaty Guys emoji?”

  Chid retorted, “Because a mere emoji, my dear girl, cannot express Nirvana.”

  Occasionally she would lower the window in order to listen in on what was going on in the street.

  Nora was sure that one of the women speaking to a CNN camera was the thin, gangly granny they’d seen that morning on their way to intercept the barn burners. She was only a few yards from Nora, but Nora could hear her clearly.

  “My heart has never ached so much for my country as this week. This week! I look forward to this week all year long, every year! I came all the way from St. Louis to meet up with my friends. To ride by this beautiful lake. To drink a few beers … We’ve been robbed. We’ve all been robbed, haven’t we? Such ugly people. Stealing away our beautiful days.”

  Nora watched her curiously for a long moment. This is what it takes to get your heart to ache for the country.

  Not too far off, the woman they’d imported from Washington to speak in the name of the Bureau was holding court. Nora, noting that the woman’s high-heeled shoes were back on, asked Chid, “What’s her name, this spokesperson?”

  “Lena Clark,” he said, glancing over at her and then back at his screen. “She’s smart. She has a master’s from Johns Hopkins.”

  Representatives of the press were peppering her with questions.

  “How many hostages are inside the courthouse?” a thick-haired man asked. Nora wondered if the position of his reading glasses was what gave him a particularly nasal tone of voice, or if his voice was simply that way.

  “There are currently sixty-two hostages inside the building,” Lena Clark said. “Our expert hostage negotiators are in constant dialogue with those responsible.”

  Nora looked over at Ben. “That’s stretching it, isn’t it? Is talking to Gabe Baker the same as talking to the actual captors?”

  He shrugged.

  “What’s the main demand of the occupiers?” someone called out.

  Clark read them the list that Abe had provided earlier.

  “Which of these demands is the U.S. Government willing to comply with?” demanded a red-faced man in the front as he dabbed at the sweat on the back of his neck.

  “The attorney general has been very clear: none of these demands is acceptable. The United States worked very hard to pass the Brady Act, or the Brady Bill as some call it, to address the violence in our country, which seem
s only to be increasing, as you can see. There is no retrenchment. As we all know, as we can all acknowledge, the victims of gun violence are most commonly those least able to defend themselves. We at the Bureau are committed to defending American citizens. We at the Bureau are committed to defending the law.”

  “Who’s going to defend us from the Bureau?” shouted a red-haired woman in the back, her skin riven with early wrinkles and her voice hoarse from years of smoking.

  She was quickly shouted down, however. This portion of the crowd seemed crisis-weary and was giving no quarter to such views—no matter how great a story they made for the evening’s broadcasts.

  “The situation is under control,” Lena Clark was insisting. “The Bureau is able to meet the challenge of domestic terrorism head-on. We will resolve this crisis expeditiously, rest assured.”

  “How?” called a man in a baseball cap with the CBS logo emblazoned across it.

  “Pardon?” she asked, and Nora could tell she was fishing for time.

  “What steps are you going to take to get the so-called ‘Patriots’ out of the courthouse and into jail without killing the hostages?”

  Lena Clark blinked, shifting her weight from one precariously high heel to the other, then said, “Now, if I shared that information with you, Mitch, I’d be sharing it with the terrorists themselves, wouldn’t I?”

  Ford observed, “She’s got nothin’.”

  Ben said, “Well, that’s no surprise, is it? Your PD friend is right. There’s no precedent. It’s one thing to bomb a federal building. Or a school. But to try to talk a bunch of willing martyrs out of their just cause…”

  “Is like talkin’ bears outta shittin’ in the woods,” said Chid.

  Ford frowned at him. “Is that your best Tamil redneck?”

  “Best so far. The day is young.”

  But the day was in fact receding, and the shadows that the federal courthouse cast across State Street were lengthening.

  “Nothing from the live feed? They’re not broadcasting the occupation?” asked Nora.

  Ford shook his head. “Nothing since they entered. They took a few pictures standing in a judge’s chambers and some of the hostages locked in a courtroom—no windows, right, so no problem. And that’s it. Since then it’s been that same PowerPoint feed selling the militia and calling for support from all the other militias in the country.”

  There was a bit of commotion and the agents swiveled their heads.

  “Oh, hooray—it’s the mayor,” deadpanned Nora.

  Indeed Mayor Vaughn, thick-necked and red-faced and sporting a “Don’t Give Up the Ship” polo shirt, had appeared at the podium vacated by Lena Clark.

  “What’s the story with that slogan on his shirt? I keep seeing it everywhere,” asked Ben.

  “Something about Commodore Perry,” said Nora. “Battle of Lake Erie. Lot of … white people shooting cannons at each other from boats. There’s a museum about it over there.” She gestured down State Street to the bay. “Mostly Commodore Perry is famous for his bar now. They have outrageously good pretzels, although I haven’t tried one yet.”

  Chid perked up. “Perry? Ah yes—the epic struggle for the borders of the newly independent United States. The most ridiculous war in American history, the War of 1812. Imagine invading Canada and getting your ass kicked.”

  They all tried to imagine just that as the mayor began speaking. He looked utterly exhausted.

  “The City of Erie has had a difficult week. We have had attacks on our people from all sides. No flood or fire or act of war has caused more loss of life for our city. I grieve for the families of those lost at the refugee center and the families of the PNC bank guard; I grieve for the family of Judge Bernstein, and most recently for councilwoman April Lewis. It is all egregious, all shocking. In addition to these acts, our courageous law enforcement officials have thwarted others and we are all indebted to them eternally.”

  “That’s us!” said Nora, tugging on Ben’s shirt.

  The mayor continued, “This is not who we are. We will rebuild. We will recover. We will continue to open our city to those who seek refuge here—we certainly now understand violence in a way that should inspire empathy for those coming from war zones. We will continue to celebrate diversity while affirming the traditions of every culture. There is no way forward except through understanding.”

  His voice trailed off, and the reporters began shouting questions at him.

  “Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor! Can you elaborate on the failed attempts you referred to?”

  He shook his head. “Not at this time, no, I cannot.”

  “Mr. Mayor! Couldn’t it be said that the Patriot group is demanding that they too be understood?”

  Mayor Vaughn said, “There are ways of sending messages. Violence will never be one that is acceptable here. Not ever,” he said. “But these people need to know that our people are not stupid; our people can understand the difference between mindless, hate-filled propaganda and truth. Erie will survive. Erie is resilient. Erie will flourish again!”

  “That’s a line for the ages,” observed Ben, rolling up Nora’s window whether she liked it or not.

  “Since when have people been able to tell the difference between propaganda and truth?” Chid asked emptily.

  “Yes!” Ford practically shouted, making them all jump.

  “What?” all three asked him.

  “I’ve been entering all the numbers that Jane Doe had called. All of them ultimately link back to one account holder—must have been some perk or punishment, but I guess he put his minions on a calling plan.”

  “Baker?” asked Ben.

  “Nooooo.”

  “Who? A name!” demanded Chid.

  “William S. Martin. I’ve got his name, date of birth, social security number.…”

  “Any images?” Chid asked.

  “Plenty. He’d been involved in litigation. Over beer. There’s a bunch of newspaper articles about him. Erie boy, apparently.”

  “What does that mean, litigation over beer?” pressed Chid, leaning over Ford’s screen.

  Ford was skimming rapidly and speaking as he read. “This beer … so the factory, sorry, the brewery closed down in 2008. But because Eisernes Kreuz Beer itself is still distributed, it looked like they’d just downsized or shifted brewery locations.”

  Chid was now apparently skimming the same article. “There was some kind of court settlement involved. The company continued for a while after that but then apparently folded.”

  “Lawsuit?” asked Ben.

  “Mmm-hmm.” Chid nodded, picking up the narrative. “Anheuser-Busch claimed the original patent on the Eisernes Kreuz recipe. The settlement was so punishing that the board voted to remove Martin and gave his ninety-year-old mother controlling interest in the company.”

  “Jesus,” said Derek.

  Chid inhaled sharply.

  Nora wanted to shake them both. “WHAT?” she almost shouted.

  “Case was heard here in U.S. District Court. Judge Bernstein.”

  Nora felt dizzy. “You can’t be serious.”

  Chid whipped his laptop screen around to show her the article he was reading from.

  She shook her head. “Then it isn’t just some … anti-government show where any old judge would have served the purpose. He had a plan!”

  “You bet your ass he had a plan,” Chid said.

  “Eisernes Kreuz had better marketing and labeling, so Anheuser-Busch retained the name even though they’d proved the original recipe. So it looks small-town and artisanal—limited distribution means they can charge big bucks,” Ford said.

  Chid narrowed his eyes as he scanned the information. “Martin’s company had to declare bankruptcy. The settlement coupled with the financial downturn in 2008 was too much for them.”

  “It looks like the one thing William walked away with was the brewery building,” Ford said. “His mother, Carole Martin, had disbursed the rest of the assets, leaving him emphatical
ly out. She left most to the nuns—like the Peach Street house with its Prohibition tunnel … that connected to the brewery.…”

  Nora nodded, thinking. “It wasn’t clear when we first found the tunnel that it still hooked up to the brewery, but there’s no other rational explanation. There must be some branch that Pete and I didn’t notice, didn’t know to look for, that links to the brewery. And it makes sense that that’s where the motorcycles have been disappearing.”

  The others were nodding.

  “But what’s he been doing since then?” asked Ben, looking thoughtful. “Old brewery like that. Probably had farmlands where they grew the hops and barley.…”

  Nora met his eyes. “Yes. When did the imaginary Geyer buy it?”

  Chid tapped on his keyboard. The silence stretched, and Nora felt like she was hyper-aware of the breathing of all three men. Finally Chid spoke: “Martin had sold off some assets before the court case. Before he lost to Anheuser-Busch and his mother gained controlling interest in the company and then disbursed most of the assets without him.”

  “So perhaps he invented Geyer. He knew bankruptcy was coming,” Ben said.

  “Perhaps…” Chid answered, deep in thought.

  “Wait, there’s a breaking news thing…” Ford said, leaning in to his laptop screen. He began swiveling his head from laptop to Jane Doe’s iPhone. “Wait…” He frowned.

  Nora looked. Various news crews started huddling around their monitors, all staring down intently. “What’s happening?” Nora demanded.

  Ford plopped his laptop down, and all of them peered at it.

  “What the hell?” asked Ben.

  “Who’s that?!” demanded Chid.

  They all turned to stare at the courthouse, emerging as they did so from Nora’s car, their eyes riveted on the building. Three windows had been flung open, and two bearded men appeared in faded T-shirts.

  The SWAT team instantly aimed their rifles toward the windows, and the crowd made a collective gasp.

  Then each bearded man began giving a dainty, regal wave to the crowd, until one tossed the other the end of a banner. As it unfurled, a cheer rose up from the majority of the onlookers.