Nation of Enemies

by H. A. Raynes

  Yes. Of course, that’s what happened. He’s been sounding like one of those paranoid conspiracy theorists. Best to concentrate on the future. He’s got a campaign to win.

  Chapter 20

  COLE HAS BEEN to the Newton branch of Hudson’s Funeral Homes far too many times. Inside the property’s Safe Wall, Lily leans heavily on him as he helps her out of the car. After a few days she still has pain from her C-­section, but the support she needs isn’t physical. In some ways it’s a relief that Talia is still in the hospital’s NICU for another few days. He isn’t sure Lily’s up to fulfilling the demands of a newborn. Not today anyway.

  Wordlessly they walk up the stone steps and through the massive white doors, into the funeral home vestibule. The space is wide and welcoming with wood floors and darkly upholstered armchairs. A faint floral scent hangs in the air. Wearing a navy suit, Steven Hudson enters the room. He gives a small bow of acknowledgment.

  “Welcome, Dr. Fitzgerald, Mrs. Fitzgerald,” he says. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” they say in unison.

  Cole met the funeral home magnate when he’d made Kate’s funeral arrangements. He’s a quirky man. Everything about him is manicured, his nails buffed, his suit perfectly pressed. Hudson shakes his head occasionally and his hand goes to his hair, as though it’s getting in his eyes. But that’s impossible, since it’s clearly sprayed into place. There’s something a little off about him. Probably just working in this business. It’d make anyone a bit odd.

  “You’re a little early,” Hudson says. “Which is good. You can take some time alone in the room with Kate.”

  At the mention of her sister’s name, Lily squeezes Cole’s arm. She says, “I’d like a moment alone with her.”

  “Of course.” Hudson directs her to a set of French doors with opaque curtains.

  Noiselessly, she crosses on the plush carpet and closes the doors behind her. An antique grandfather clock announces there’s another thirty minutes before the wake begins. Cole imagines Lily behind those doors, and Kate. Impulsive, passionate Kate.

  Shuffling over to the window, he glances out onto the freshly cut lawn. It’s been just a few weeks since they returned from London, and everything has changed. New home, new routine, new baby. New loss. This is the very reason they left. He sniffs, rubs his nose. At least Lily can have some closure with Kate, instead of mourning from so far away.

  Meanwhile, poor Kate’s lying in there with a nearly pristine MedID. An 86. If they could swap it for Lily’s they’d be on the next plane out. Kate would want Lily to have her MedID, if it meant she could be safe. The randomness of it all pains him. The floor creaks, reminding him that the funeral director is still standing across the room. Hudson is where all the madness ends. Cole’s eyes unfocus through the glass pane as he considers this. The MedIDs are buried along with the dead.

  But what if they weren’t?

  The thought jolts him. He suddenly craves fresh air.

  “I’ll be right outside if she needs me,” he says, glancing back at Hudson.

  Through the doors, he breathes easier in the open space. He trots down the steps and hastens along the edge of the drive. Ideas dart and connect, though he’s not sure what he’s working out. Kate. MedIDs. Funeral homes. There’s no way around the MedID. Luck and DNA are the keys to living, it’s that simple. And DNA is black and white. Unalterable, factual details that set each of us on a particular path. Details that separate families. Details that kill hope.

  There must be at least twenty minutes left before ­people start arriving. He tosses his jacket in the front seat of his car, loosens his tie and rolls his head around his neck. Running is his release, one of the few things left in his control. Obviously, he can’t run here in his suit. But despite the stiffness of his dress shoes, he can walk at a quick pace.

  Striding around the lengthy drive, he takes in the ancient maples and oaks that create a canopy overhead. He pumps his left hand, the muscles in his arm flexing. The MedID feels like a part of his body, no different from an organ. So, if facts on the MedID can’t be changed, what can be? Personal information on biochips can’t be modified. Names, social security numbers, DNA, birthdates—­those are hardwired and encrypted. Many have tried and failed to alter the data. Those same ­people now serve life sentences for treason. From their mistakes, it’s clear the only way to change a person’s MedID is to get a new one. His soles clack rhythmically against the asphalt. At the side of the house he finds a stone path and alters his course.

  The ideas push through, unrelenting. Only infants are issued new MedIDs. ­People with clean DNA, and nothing glaring on the medical record, are both in the minority and hold sacred their biological status. Perhaps the key is someone who no longer needs or wants their MedID. Someone, say, dead.

  He stops, bends, hands on his knees. Looking around, he’s come full circle, back to the front of the building. At the driveway entrance several feet away is a tasteful Hudson’s Funeral Homes sign. Holy shit. A national funeral chain. The government forgets about MedIDs once they hit this place. Unwanted treasure. A solid, weighty pit lands in his stomach. It’s dangerous. Maybe deadly. And it’s undoubtedly a treasonous idea.

  The Hudson’s front doors open and Cole bolts upright. His heart leaps to his throat as though he’s been caught. Steven Hudson peeks his head around and spots him.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Dr. Fitzgerald,” he says. “But you’re needed inside.”

  “Right, thank you.” Cole retrieves his jacket from the car and heads back into the building. A low wail fills the air like some appropriate music for the occasion. Behind the French doors he finds Lily on her knees at the casket. Kate lies on a silk pillow, with rosy cheeks and waves of hair. Lily’s last sibling, her last family member. Her cries penetrate him and he envelops her. They rock back and forth. After a few minutes he hears ­people shuffling into the vestibule. Mercifully, no one intrudes.

  Having Talia should bring them solace during this time. Instead, he feels irresponsible. Audacious. Another innocent child brought into this war. The impetus to leave has never been greater. It’s a problem he needs to solve.

  IN THE RECEPTION area, Jonathan Hudson does as promised, helping his stepdad during the wake. The collar on his shirt chafes his neck; the tie feels like a noose. But it’s an easy enough job; be quiet, polite and patient. There’s a crush of ­people waiting to go inside the viewing room, but the family is inside, requesting a few more minutes of privacy. So he ­people-­watches.

  Most adults wear the requisite black. A few kids poke around, bored. They don’t belong at funerals. Depressing shit. As he scans the room, a flash of red catches his eye. A rope of strawberry blond, a grass-­green dress.

  Suddenly, the French doors to the viewing room open and Steven ushers in the mourners. The seats fill, the standing room grows crowded. And the doors close.

  “Hey.” The voice is a smooth rasp.

  His head jerks around to see the girl in the green dress. Holy shit, she’s beautiful. Must be around his age, seventeen or eighteen. He can’t remember the last time he was this close to a girl. He musters, “Hey.”

  “You work here?”

  “Kind of.”

  “You just like hanging out in funeral homes?” One side of her lips curves up.

  “That’d be fucked up.”

  They both laugh. She puts her hand over her mouth to quiet herself. He follows the path of freckles up her arm, onto her neck. There are so many it’s like her skin color instead of individual dots.

  “I live here,” he says finally. “This is my stepfather’s business.”

  “Wow. So you’re used to all this.” She gestures to the closed doors of the wake.

  “Not really.”

  They both look around the room.

  “I’m Hannah.” She extends her hand and he shakes it.

 
“Jonathan.” Her hand is cool, while his is sweaty. Damn. He lets go. “You friends with the woman in there?”

  She shakes her head. “Just here for support. My friend knew her.”

  “Sucks.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You going in?”

  “I can’t deal with open caskets.” Her eyes scan the floor. “Guess I’m not much support.”

  “They’ll be in there awhile.” He checks the grandfather clock. “Maybe an hour.”

  “Hmm.” She rocks on her feet.

  What to do? He wants to keep her here. He’s never seen anything like the color of her hair, gold and red. “You like, uh, you like video games?” Idiot. His tongue isn’t cooperating.

  She shrugs. “More than funerals.”

  “Follow me.”

  Loosening his tie, he leads her through the living area, up the stairs, and into his room. Conversation flows, weaves through common ground: food, school, music. Gesturing with his hand, Jonathan prompts the video game. His room is transformed into a futuristic world, their avatars fighting against aliens that explode to bits, drip down the walls. He’s never had a girl in his room. He steals glimpses of her, watches her alternately smile and frown as she concentrates on the game. She’s easy to be with. He knows he’s awkward, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Suddenly his phone vibrates, startling him. It’s Steven.

  “Sorry,” he says. His hand swipes the air to shut off the game. Lights on again, he notices dirty clothes on the floor and he kicks them under the bed. “They’re wrapping up downstairs.”

  “That was fun.” When she smiles, he sees for the first time the slightest space between her front teeth. “I didn’t expect to have fun today.”

  “Me either.”

  She touches her smartphone, waits as she locates him. “Found you. Just sent my info.”

  “Cool.” He nods, speechless. Dumb.

  “See you soon, Jonathan.” She breezes by, shoots him a smile and elbows him on her way out.

  By the time he gets back down to the visitation rooms, ­people are filing out. Steven asks him where the hell he’s been. Whatever, it was worth the lecture. As he cleans up after the ser­vice, images of her take his mind off his work. Her hair. Her smile. The rest of the day her name is on the tip of his tongue. Hannah.

  Chapter 21

  KATE’S FUNERAL IS terribly, predictably, sad. Upon seeing Sebastian, Lily hugs him fiercely, but the energy quickly drains from her and he and Cole practically carry her to her seat. Throughout the ser­vice there are heartfelt exchanges, clasped hands. But Sebastian doesn’t feel Kate here, not at the funeral home, not at the cemetery. She’s only in the home they share. Shared. In their bed, in the nook where they had breakfast each morning, the places they settled into at night. In those rooms he grieves, violently at times. To be there without her is torture. And so he won’t be. Ever again.

  It takes amazingly little to physically wrap up his life: three days, five rolls of packing tape, twenty-­seven boxes, ten garbage bags, help from Renner, a van, a storage unit, and a lock. Ten of the boxes are Kate’s, plus her clothes, which he and Lily decide to donate. He’ll store the rest of her boxes until Lily’s ready to see them. He tells Cole and Lily he’s going away for a while. They know better than to ask details.

  There’s something therapeutic about packing and locking up all of his belongings for an indeterminate amount of time. When all paperwork on his covert mission is approved, he locks his valuables in storage, puts a hold on utilities, and places in a safe deposit box the key and a microchip containing personal information in the event of his death. Surprisingly mundane, but necessary. Within the week he is living in a furnished apartment in Milton. His address is known only to Renner and the one tech assigned to their team. Sebastian’s new alias is William Anderson. Though he prefers Will.

  THE BOSTON FBI branch is uncharacteristically noisy with several agents sent up from Washington, and all efforts are dedicated to the State House attack. Sebastian walks through the halls feeling oddly removed from the action. Some colleagues don’t recognize him with his newly grown beard, his longer, wavy hair. He scratches his chin—­it feels like someone else’s—­as he searches for the right office. Finally he spots it.

  Waiting for him inside is a creative technologist from the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency in Arlington. If there is any fun to being a spook, it’s in the devices created by DARPA. They spend an hour in the windowless room, as the bald man who resembles a teenage Dalai Lama instructs Sebastian how to use the cutting edge inventions that will enable and enhance his mission. When the meeting wraps, his briefcase contains microchips, a ventilated plastic box with several remote-­controllable Mecynorrhina torquata beetles, and .50-­caliber bullets that can alter course mid-­flight. Among other things.

  After, he wanders over to Renner’s office. There’s no sign of him. Sebastian texts. A return message reads: Carter Benson, Hensley’s asst. Rm 3. He hurries to the Interrogation area, eager to see what his partner is up to.

  Inside the observation room, Sebastian activates the video wall and a live feed of the interview appears. He watches the action, happening just down the hall. Renner sits across from a twenty-­something man with dark features, wearing a suit and tie. The Bureau’s reached the end of a long list of interviewees connected to the State House attack. Their questions are growing stale and their initial theories are losing momentum.

  “It wasn’t easy getting on your schedule, Mr. Benson,” Renner says.

  “I apologize,” Benson says. “Senator Hensley’s campaign has us traveling nonstop.”

  “Well, I won’t take much of your time.” Renner wears a poker face. “The Bureau is thorough in every attack, but even more so when it involves the assassination of a presidential candidate.”

  “Of course.” Benson folds his hands and nods earnestly. “Happy to help, if I can.”

  Renner brushes a hand over the table, cueing a glass monitor to rise. On it is Benson’s file, which he instantly shares with Sebastian. Scanning through it on his handheld, Sebastian sees it’s an interesting read. This guy’s connection to Kate appears to be a simple administrative task they shared when scheduling the event.

  “You were lucky,” Renner says.

  “Excuse me?” Benson cocks his head.

  “You walked away from the attack unscathed,” Renner clarifies. “I’d call that lucky.”

  “It was horrible.” Benson straightens. “I may not have been affected by the gas, but I’ll never forget what I saw. I don’t call that lucky.”

  “As someone so integral to the campaign, I’m surprised you weren’t up on the steps with Richard Hensley.”

  “At the time, I was his personal aide. I got him coffee. Made calls on his behalf. Arranged meetings. Aides aren’t considered integral at these events.”

  “You have a new title now, correct?”

  “I was promoted to deputy campaign manager.”

  “Congratulations.” Renner waves a hand over the screen and it tilts in his direction. He studies it. “You’ve worked in some capacity for the Liberty Party for over a decade. White House intern. Personal aide to President Clark, then chief aide to Hensley. Sounds like a successful career track.”

  “I like what I do. Right time, right place, I suppose.”

  “Don’t be modest.” Renner’s tone has an edge of sarcasm. “Exeter, Yale. I’m guessing it was a bit more calculated than mere chance.”

  Benson leans in. “I’m happy to answer any questions. Are there any?”

  “Kate Manning,” Renner says. “From the National Tourism office.”

  At the mention of her name, Sebastian tenses.

  “Kate Manning,” Benson repeats, his eyes searching the ceiling briefly. “Yes. Kate. I was in touch with her to coordinate the event schedule.”

  No response
from Renner.

  “I was sorry to hear she was one of the victims. I met her only once at a run-­through of the event.”

  “There was a last minute change in schedule.” Renner holds up a printout of an email from Benson to Kate. “You requested they start five minutes late.”

  Benson sighs. “Mr. Hensley runs perpetually late. It’s my job to keep him on time, but he moves at his own pace. That morning he couldn’t decide what suit to wear.”

  Renner cocks his head at him.

  “What? You don’t believe me?”

  “They delayed an event involving thousands of ­people and the presidential candidate because Hensley couldn’t decide between beige and navy?”

  “Essentially. Welcome to my world.”

  That’s easy enough to check when they interview Hensley. Once again Renner swipes a finger across the screen and reviews Benson’s file. “You were arrested at a protest in ’eighteen.”

  “I was a juvenile,” Benson says. “That’s no longer relevant.”

  “Let’s say for the hell of it that it is relevant.”

  “I got involved with the wrong kids.” Benson shakes his head. “Doesn’t everyone have a story like this?”

  “Not everyone.”

  “We staged a protest against the MedID. I fell in with a group of kids who were strongly against it when it came out. I’m sure you remember the debates that went on.” He waits for a reaction, doesn’t get one. “Anyway, someone brought some firecrackers. ­People got in the way. We got arrested.”

  “You’ve changed your political views?” Renner prods. “Your boss is essentially responsible for the MedID law.”

  Benson shifts in his chair. “Kids do a lot of stupid shit. And then they grow up. Now. Is there anything else?”

  “Just one last thing.” Renner glances at the screen. “Your mother was an elementary school principal?”

  Benson’s eyes widen slightly. “I don’t discuss this. Clearly you already know the answers to your questions.”