Nation of Enemies

by H. A. Raynes

  Carter appears and hands Richard a bottle of water. As he drinks, ­people talk at him: an aide, his speechwriter, a senator. None of it registers. He’s busy conjuring Norah. Imagining her walking hand in hand with him on stage. The audience would fall in love with her instantly.

  Finally, it’s time. With a triumphant smile and an arm raised in greeting, he strides onto the stage to the sound of massive applause. A step behind, his vice presidential running mate, David Glickman, waves both arms. The energy in the room is unlike anything Richard’s ever felt and it makes him gasp. It’s a full minute before they settle down and he takes his place behind the podium.

  “It’s good to see you, too.” Laughter. “I am honored and humbled to be your presidential candidate.” Cheers. He gestures to the young governor. “And of course, I’m excited and thankful to have David Glickman as my partner, your next vice president.” Slowly, the din quiets.

  “However.” Richard thinks again of Norah. His eyes glisten. “It saddens me beyond words that we’ve been brought together in the wake of a national tragedy. We will never forget James Gardiner and the inspiring, distinguished life he lost in the name of this great country. Please, let’s share a moment of silence in his name.”

  Richard closes his eyes and focuses on the next part of his speech. After what feels like enough time, he returns his gaze to the crowd.

  “And just as we can never forget James Gardiner and the other souls lost in Boston, we can never forget that we are a country at war.” He grips the podium. “Our nation is in shock at the constant loss of life. Horrified by the viciousness of our enemy, these terrorists who make our streets unsafe and pretend to be good neighbors. But as I stand here today, I promise you we will spare no resource to expose and capture them.” A burst of applause.

  “As Commander-­in-­Chief, I will greet each day with renewed energy and determination to win the War at Home. I will work ceaselessly with the Department of Defense and Homeland Security to strengthen our military. In time, the United States will be home to the healthiest, most resilient citizenry on the planet. With the MedID as our tool, you will be well-­cared for. Your health and your safety. You will be free to live your lives. To work your jobs. To go to school. To care for your children.” Shouts of yes echo off the walls. “The MedID was instrumental in facilitating emergency care for the victims of our recent tragedy. With the MedID, the incredible medical community, and with God’s blessing, we will be healed. No more disease. No more evil. Health and happiness will be our just desserts.”

  Thunderous approval. “I want to take a minute and speak to the Independents. Those of you who do not have MedIDs. We share this beautiful country, its resources, its government. And I want you to be safe, too. I’ve spoken to folks in Atlanta and Dallas, in Minneapolis and Seattle, and in small towns and cities across this country. I understand your concerns and your fears. And let me be clear. Everyone in the United States is free. Free to travel, to work, to own property, to earn money. Free, in fact, to run for President. But let’s be honest. No one wants a president with a fifty-­eight.” Laughter. “My number is on public record—­I’m proud to say I’m an eighty-­two.”

  Cheers. He moves on to highlight the party platform: education, unemployment, and international relations. After fifteen minutes he is ready for the finish.

  “When I’m in the White House, we’ll work together to get a handle on this war that’s been brought to our doorstep. Together, we’ll build a healthier nation. Doctor visits will be a rare occurrence. No one will need to file for unemployment. We will once again be the strongest country in this world because we will bring this war to an end. We will come together. And all will be well. That’s what I want you to remember when you vote for me come November. All will be well.”

  Chapter 25

  Newton, Massachusetts

  IT’S MIDNIGHT WHEN Jonathan returns home from his first day of working for Reverend Mitchell. Hannah had ridden along with him in the car on the way to BASIA headquarters. It was crazy. They blindfolded him. Said the location was top secret. It’s pretty paranoid behavior if the Reverend hasn’t done anything wrong. But Jonathan pushes that aside, happy to be employed, happy for the distraction. He spent the day working with their chief technologist on tedious server clean-­up and upgrading their software. All in all, not a bad first day.

  Meanwhile, if his mom is sober, she’ll be pissed that he’s home so late. This morning he’d told her and Steven he was starting a new job. They’d fired questions at him: where was he going, what was he doing, why did he need money? Steven told him he already had a job—­at the morgue. His mother argued that he should be able to work remotely. Jonathan made up a story about working for an IT company that helps ­people in their own homes. Finally they’d agreed to let him try the new job. A test run.

  As he trots up the front steps, he hears his mother through the door. Shit. He fumbles for the key. She’s screaming. Not crying, not shouting. Screaming at the top of her lungs as though she’s being bludgeoned.

  Following her voice, he drops his backpack and sprints to the kitchen. On his way he passes smears of bright colors along the walls: red, yellow, green, orange, blue. The rainbow goes from the baseboards to the wainscoting.

  At the kitchen doorway he stops abruptly. Perched atop the island is his mother. Naked and covered in paint, she’s holding a large knife pointed at Steven, who stands on the other side of the room. Jonathan opens his mouth but has no idea what to say. He can’t look at her. Wants to help her. Desperately, he scans the floor for a shirt, a towel, something to cover her. Nothing. “Mom?”

  “Your mother has stepped out,” Steven says in a calm, even voice.

  Jonathan moves closer to her. “Mom, it’s me.”

  “She’s been like this for a ­couple hours.”

  Together, they wait. Finally his mom’s dilated eyes focus on him. Tears stream down her face and she begins muttering unintelligibly. She sinks down on the countertop, hugs her knees, rocks back and forth. She holds the knife, pressed against her leg, no longer pointing at Steven. Now it’s a danger to her.

  “I thought you changed the lock on the morgue door,” he says to Steven.

  “I did. Twice. Where there’s a will.”

  Moving slowly, Jonathan hops up on the kitchen counter, across from her. It’s going to be a long night. “Why can’t she just get high?”

  “That doesn’t take her far enough away,” Steven says. “Doesn’t make her feel invincible.”

  “She didn’t used to be like this.”

  “Not exactly, no. But it’s always something isn’t it? When she takes on a new vice, she becomes consumed by it. Relationships, food, painting. She’s all or nothing. It’s in her genes.”

  Jonathan watches the curved spine of his mother, coated in green and yellow like a lizard. It turns his stomach. This is his fault. Years ago she’d caught him smoking weed and before long they smoked together. He provided the pot that initially had the effect of calming her. It helped her moods, made her happier. But then one day he’d read about dipping bud into embalming fluid and decided to try it. After a few minutes of a kick-­ass high, he’d grown angry and ended up tearing his room apart. He was so out of his mind he couldn’t hide it from his mother. When he’d confessed what he’d done, she hadn’t punished him. Instead, she’d had him show her how to do it. It only took one time for her to be hooked.

  “Don’t blame yourself.”

  His head snaps in Steven’s direction. How does he know?

  “Sarah told me you get her the pot. But you don’t make her smoke it, you don’t make her dip it. She makes her own decisions.”

  The knife clangs to the tiled floor. His mother’s body sags as she sobs quietly.

  “We need to put a stop to this.” Steven crouches to the floor and quickly retrieves the knife. “This little secret of ours won’t hold for much lon
ger when she chooses to get high during a wake or when we’re meeting clients.”

  “This is more important than the fucking funeral home.”

  “Agreed.”

  “What are you talking about?” He watches as Steven moves slowly toward his mother. When he reaches her, she crawls readily into his arms like a child. He kisses her cheek, comes away with a smear of blue on his face.

  “Rehab, Jonathan.” Steven’s voice is raspy with emotion. “She needs to be checked into a rehabilitation facility.”

  “She won’t go.”

  “She won’t have a choice.”

  “You’d have her committed?”

  “She’s a danger to all of us.”

  It’s a hard point to argue. “When?”

  Steven shrugs. “Now?”

  When the ambulance arrives, the two of them wrap her in her bathrobe and guide her to it. Jonathan stands in the driveway and watches as his mother and stepfather are driven away. The warm summer night is like a blanket, and suddenly he craves his bed. They did the right thing, he knows. She needed to get out of that house, just like he did. When death is everywhere, how can they live? Maybe he should try out Patriot’s Church. See what it’s all about. There must be something to it if Hannah goes. Maybe his mom will even come with him.

  July, 2032

  Chapter 26

  A WHITE ELECTRIC company van with a silver lightning bolt on the side pulls to the curb on Central Avenue in Milton. Sebastian glances at the dirt yards, unused bikes, and discarded furniture scattered throughout. Abandoned cars without tires. Few ­people live in the Boston suburb since the mass exodus to rural New England. Even on a warm day it looks cold.

  Carrying old, dented toolboxes, he and Renner step out of the van. They wear matching black T-­shirts with a fake company logo, baseball hats, and sunglasses. It’s midday Wednesday. With Taylor Hensley at work and her daughter at preschool, the apartment will be empty. Inside the entryway the paint is peeling and there are holes along the baseboard. The darkened tint of their sunglasses fades into clear lenses.

  “Nice place.” Renner points to mouse droppings.

  “She obviously isn’t tapping into her trust fund,” Sebastian says. “The senator must be anxious to move them into a Safe District.”

  At the top of the third flight of stairs they find the right door. In seconds Sebastian opens the locks and they’re in. On the other side of the door, Taylor’s home is another world from the building in which it’s housed. Walls have been taken down to create a large, open room. One wall is clearly a child’s canvas, part chalkboard, part paint splatter and crude yet pretty paintings. But the rest of it comes from Taylor’s hand. In the far corner, a small kitchen is painted red and in cartoonish letters on the cabinets is the word eat. To their right is a comfortable space with a cozy couch, beanbag chairs, and a shag carpet. The wall is painted burnt orange with Taylor’s signature graffiti writing in black with a daily reminder to: “relax, enjoy, cuddle, love, escape.”

  “Don’t get any ideas,” Renner whispers.

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” A red signal in Sebastian’s smartglasses indicates existing surveillance sensors.

  “Got it,” Renner mumbles.

  They both swivel around, catching more red signals. TV monitor. Refrigerator. Toy robot. Another one across the room, nestled into the frame of a large historical map of Paris. He motions for Renner to follow him into a bathroom. Closing the door behind them, Renner flips on the light and the fan, for noise. A quick sweep reveals no devices.

  “Abort?” Renner asks.

  “No way.” Sebastian removes his glasses, rubs the bridge of his nose.

  “They’ve seen us.”

  “And we’ve seen them, so to speak. They don’t know who we are.”

  “What if it’s Mitchell? You’re about to enter his militia. They could run you through facial recognition and make a match.”

  The bathroom is too small to pace. Sebastian catches a glimpse in the mirror and for a tenth of a second doesn’t recognize himself. His dark hair has grown longer, wavy, and his face is partially hidden behind a neatly trimmed beard. The premature gray streaks serve him well in this disguise, turning his thirty-­five years into a believable forty.

  “I don’t think it’s Mitchell,” Sebastian says.

  “Why not?” Renner asks. “He could have surveillance on his entire congregation.”

  Sebastian shakes his head. “He’s egomaniacal and supremely confident. Once you’ve passed through the threshold of Patriot’s Church you’re in his world. He doesn’t need to spy on someone like Taylor Hensley.”

  “Unless he’s trying to get to the senator.”

  “Maybe the surveillance is Richard Hensley’s.” The bathroom has grown warm. They stand about three feet apart with their backs against opposite surfaces. “Either way, we need to place our sensors and get out.”

  They move silently. Continuing the facade that they’re electricians, they study wiring and circuitry while strategically placing the microchip sensors in the digital board of Taylor’s microwave, into the overhead lighting fixture in her bedroom and a game console in the living room. Now they’ll observe her every move, along with whoever else has a vested interest in her. After surreptitiously slipping a sensor onto Taylor’s bedside table tamp, he notices a picture on her dresser. In it, she has long blond hair, a wide smile like her father. And she’s on the arm of Sienna’s father, Mason Jenner.

  Finished, they lock the door behind them. Back in the van, Renner pulls out and they head back to the city. Sebastian stares out the window. Taylor’s FBI file is thin, the info mostly about her father and the MedFuture bombing. Of course, he understands her anger after losing her husband. But why would she turn to Mitchell?

  THE REST OF the week, Sebastian hones and memorizes his alias. Will Anderson’s walk, his dry sense of humor, family details, and career history. When he’s alone, he talks out loud, practicing a lazy tongue that allows a Boston accent to creep in. He’s traded in the button-­down shirts and suits for T-­shirts and jeans. At least he’ll be comfortable. Yesterday his MedID was removed and it’s being stored in an FBI safe box. His new MedID was then injected, giving him a 69. The tech had applied a salve over the injection site that made the wound disappear in minutes. He’s ready.

  He texts Renner. Despite the encryption on Renner’s end and Sebastian’s disposable cell, they communicate in code. He wanders around the stark apartment in a T-­shirt and boxers.

  Sebastian: I’m hungry for take-­out. (Ready to go in.)

  Renner: Great. Will get you the Thai menu. (I’ll alert the tech and have him add your alias near the top of the BASIA applicant list.)

  Sebastian walks into his bedroom and sits on the bed. All these years, analyzing and watching Charles Mitchell and his militia. He can’t wait to get inside, to expose this fanatic responsible for so much chaos, so much blood. And for taking Kate’s life. The ache of missing her is ever-­present. From a drawer in the bedside table he pulls out a black velvet ring box. Stiff, it opens with a creak. Her engagement ring. He takes it out and watches the light play off the surface of the diamond.

  Renner: You’re all set. Menu on its way.

  Sebastian: Thanks.

  Renner: Unless you want a casserole?

  Sebastian laughs out loud. Sounds damn good actually.

  Renner: I’ll be watching for your order. (I’ll be tracking you.)

  Sebastian tosses the phone on the bed and replaces the ring in the box, settling it back into the drawer. The pillow is cold on his neck as he lies down. Above, on the dropped ceiling tiles, someone left plastic stars that glow. He switches off the light and stares at them.

  Sleep is swift and takes him just as he’s thinking of Kate, just as he’s saying one more time, I’m sorry for being late. Always his last thought of the day. A fla
sh of blue ripples through his unconscious, the fabric of her dress. When he awakens in the morning, he knows that he dreamt of her death once more. It’s exhausting to start every day so angry.

  Chapter 27

  THE FOURTH OF July is a predictably busy overnight shift at Mass General. Cole oversees his staff as an endless flow of casualties are treated, scanned, and discharged. In a rare lull, he retreats into his office for a coffee break. He pulls out a notepad and pencil from a desk drawer.

  Since Kate’s funeral he’s been consumed by the MedID issue, studying it from every angle. Steven Hudson and his funeral chain intrigues him. Countless buried MedIDs that could provide a future for anyone without a clean number. Cole has chosen not to bring up the topic with Lily. She’s fragile, clinging to Ian and Talia as though they might be taken from her. Years ago, when she was a survivor in a school bombing, it seemed to make her stronger. Then her parents were killed in an attack. That they went together was some solace, and perhaps even some strange relief without her constant worry about them several states away. But Kate’s death has sucked her into a dark place. And telling her now about his treasonous idea would be akin to cruelty. Treason, punishable by life in prison or death. Being taken from his family in the midst of war is inconceivable. Still, there must be a way around the system.

  In the quiet of his office, he puts pencil to paper. The soft scratch of his writing is oddly comforting. Nearby he keeps a lighter in case he needs to quickly dispose of the evidence. He makes a list of qualifications for MedID donors.

  •The donor would need to be unemployed and not due any pensions/benefits/insurance. The MedID triggers these payments and it would alert the government if checks aren’t cashed, funds are unclaimed.

  •Physical description needs to be a close match. Create a database that matches donors/recipients by age and appearance.

  •The donor is ideally without family. Immediate or extended.