by David Lucin
As Rachel finished her sentence, a bang came from the garage doors. Spooked, she spun around to face them while Philip rose from his bucket. Out of habit, he approached with his mother’s Ruger drawn. He assumed that Todd and Sheena, the recipients of the final box of fliers, had arrived, but he wasn’t taking any chances, not after the screw-up at the meat-packing plant.
Three more bangs.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“It’s us,” a woman responded. “Sheena and Todd.”
He unlocked the deadbolt on the man door and eased it open. Outside stood a couple in their thirties. Philip had met Sheena and her husband, Todd, once but only in passing. The sleeves of Todd’s long-sleeve shirt were rolled up to the elbow, and his Colorado Rockies hat immediately made Philip hate him. Grudgingly, though, he admired that Todd had the guts to openly support the Diamondbacks’ biggest rival on their home turf, so he revised his opinion from hate to dislike. Sheena wore a tank top and jeans with no rips or tears, and above her lip was a mole Philip struggled to avoid staring at. Both were new hires who helped with odd jobs and handled some of the maintenance in Mom’s absence. Philip wondered what they did before the bombs. He pictured them as gig workers—graphic designers, maybe, or video editors—trying in vain to compete with freelancers in Africa who could charge pennies on the dollar.
Sheena carried a sign: white poster board stapled to a wooden handle. She and Todd must have come from the protests. Philip craned his neck to read the text on it, but from this angle, he couldn’t see.
“Finally,” Rachel said. “You guys get lost on the way here or what?”
“Sorry,” Todd apologized. “You forget how much bigger the city feels when you’ve gotta walk everywhere.”
Rachel waved them inside. “Come on in. Let’s move this along, shall we?”
As they passed Philip and stepped into the brewery, Sheena spotted the tattoo on Philip’s neck. Her shoulders shrank, and she remained beyond arm’s reach. He knew that his appearance intimidated people, and for most of his twenties, that was the point. When he was released on parole, he toyed with the idea of having it removed, a symbolic fresh start, but the price had too many zeroes in it. Now he’d missed his shot.
“I’m Todd, by the way.” The muscles in the man’s neck and face tightened as he held out his hand for Philip.
“I know,” Philip said, and they shook. “Met you at the ranch once like two weeks back.”
The man visibly relaxed. “Right, right. I didn’t think you’d remember.”
Rachel, standing next to the cardboard box of fliers and holding out the paper bag of eggs, whistled impatiently. “Let’s move it along here. I told my lady I’d be home for supper and I’ve been itching to get some mommy time in lately.”
Sheena stabbed Todd with a finger and pointed toward the box while she took the eggs from Rachel.
As Todd hefted the box, groaning as he did so, Rachel added, “There’s a note in there telling you what neighborhoods you’re supposed to be doing. And remember, nothing out before midnight. We don’t want anyone seeing you and the cops getting a whiff and shutting you down.”
“We’re not doing anything illegal, are we?” Sheena asked.
“No,” Philip assured her. “But you know Andrews. She might try to stop the protests before they really pick up speed. People waking up to these on their doorsteps is the best way to get the word out. That’s all.”
Rachel shooed them toward the door. Before they left, the sign in Sheena’s hand caught Philip’s eye once more. He could make out a few letters now: an E and an S.
His mouth went dry. “Wait,” he said. “Let me see that.”
She rested the bag of eggs on her hip and secured it with the crook of her elbow. When she turned it over and Philip read the text, his stomach leaped into his throat.
REMEMBER VALERIA FLORES.
“The hell is this?” he snapped.
She took a long step away from him. “It’s . . . It’s just a sign. For the protests. This is that lady who died when the Go Market was attacked. There’s a bunch of them at the ranch. When we left after work today, Esteban told us to take one and bring it to the dorms tomorrow.”
The sign taunted him. Remember Valeria Flores. It sounded like a slogan Dad would come up with. No wonder he was so happy that Philip had killed her; he was using her as a symbol—something the people could focus on and connect with. A fake martyr. Her death told the perfect story: she was a hero defending Flagstaff’s food supply, and a gang of newcomers murdered her.
But it wasn’t a gang of newcomers. It was Philip.
His balance wavered. Dad hadn’t even mentioned his plan to use Valeria Flores’s name. Why not? Until now, his father had kept him in the know. What changed? Philip tried telling himself that Dad only wanted to avoid hurting his feelings or dredging up bad memories about the killing, but that kind of empathy wasn’t in Vincent Grierson’s programming and never had been.
A sense of betrayal lurked in the back of his mind. Dad should have told him. He deserved a heads-up. It was that simple.
Without realizing what he was doing, he snatched the sign away from Sheena, tore the poster board from the handle, and then snapped it into two pieces.
Sheena yelped, the sound high and shrill and laced with fear. The box trembled in Todd’s arms.
“Time to go,” Rachel said. Glaring at Philip, she guided them through the door. “Bye-bye now.”
Philip was seeing red, his blood boiling. He had always sensed that Dad was less than enthusiastic about dumping his life’s savings into hiring the best lawyers money could buy. Not to mention, Philip could count on one hand how many times he’d talked to him between the day he left for Phoenix and the day he came home after his sentence. The man was ashamed of what Philip had become, and rightly so. But that was all in the past now, wasn’t it? If anything, Mom dying had brought father and son closer together.
That sign with Valeria Flores’s name on it suggested otherwise, and the heavy dose of reality kicked Philip so hard in the chest he was struggling to breathe.
Once Todd and Sheena were gone, Rachel flung the door shut. “Man,” she said, one hand on her hip. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” he growled.
“It didn’t look like nothing. It looked a lot like you flipping out over a sign. If they don’t deliver those fliers because you freaked out, then—”
“They’ll do it.”
Rachel crossed her arms and stood with a knee bent. “Sorry,” she began, speaking more softly now. “I’m being insensitive. Wendy regularly gives me the gears for that.” She brought a hand to his shoulder. “I realize you’re dealing with some stuff after that night. It can’t be easy. I’ve never been in your shoes and I hope I never am, but if you wanna talk it out, get it off your chest, you can come to me.”
He appreciated the offer and was thankful to have Rachel as a friend. Too bad they hadn’t been closer when they were teenagers. Maybe then he wouldn’t have run off with so little hesitation after failing out of school. Unloading about all that was bothering him might help—Valeria Flores, the sleepless nights, how he missed his mother and how angry he was that she’d been taken away from him, his brand-new concern about his relationship with Dad—but after growing up as a Grierson and then rolling with so many unsavory types in Phoenix, his instinct was to hide his feelings as much as he could, lest they be used against him. Rachel would be the last person to throw his words in his face, but he had no idea where to begin.
So all he said was, “Yeah, Rach. Thanks. But I’m good.”
Her lifted eyebrow implied that she didn’t believe him. For a half-second, he thought she’d press the issue, but instead, she took both halves of the poster board and tossed them aside, then led him toward the door. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
12
The bike ride to McKay Village took thirty minutes less than the bike ride to the farm, which meant thirty extra minutes of sleep in t
he morning. The new shifts were grueling, twelve hours as opposed to the usual eight, but after only three days, Jenn was beginning to adjust.
She cruised past the Go Market. Already, at 7:45, the line waiting for the doors to open was fifty or sixty long. Outside McKay Village on University, wooden traffic barriers demarcated where demonstrations were allowed to occur. Two portable toilets had been set up nearby.
By late morning, protesters would begin to arrive, followed by counter-protesters, locals and newcomers alike, who defended the refugees and their right to stay. Then the crowds would grow until they peaked in the afternoon, the police and the Beaumonts watching closely to ensure that the two groups didn’t go to war. Around dinnertime, everyone would disperse. Rinse and repeat tomorrow. There had been no violence, but more from both sides were coming all the time. Yesterday, Jenn estimated, there were over a hundred in total.
She locked her bike outside Allison’s building. On the second day here, Dylan moved his security office, which the police had begun using as well, out of the Findlays’ spare bedroom and into a study room on the ground floor. That couldn’t keep Teagan away, though. Without anyone asking, she’d assumed the role of team mom: organizing rations from the farm into meals for the guards, making sure everyone was hydrated, and even in one case offering to wash Bryce’s clothes. Jenn should propose that Sophie hire her on full-time when this was all over.
Mouth open to let out a yawn, she stepped through the front door, but a body appeared out of nowhere and blocked her. Surprised, she yelped and jumped back.
“Jenn?”
Her heart thundered in her chest, but Sam’s touch put her at ease.
Wait. Sam?
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to spook you.”
Hunched over at the waist, hands on her knees, she blew out a breath. “God, Sam.” She lifted her head to examine him. He wore his blue Minute Tire coveralls and was smirking at her. “What are you doing here? You left home like an hour ago. Shouldn’t you be at the shop?”
Behind him loomed Carter, also in his coveralls. “Jansen!”
She knew what was coming and braced herself by planting her feet. Underestimating his own strength, the big man nearly took her down with his hug, but she didn’t mind. “Hey, Carter,” she squeaked through his embrace and patted his back. “Good to see you, too.”
He released her and stuck his hands in his pockets. His hair had grown out since Phoenix, and she was surprised by how much gray was in it. The beard he kept trimmed, but even now, after she’d gotten to know him so well, he reminded her more of a bear than a human being. “Are you coming?” he asked her, grinning with impeccably white teeth.
“Coming where? What are you talking about? You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”
“We were just up at Charlie’s place,” Sam explained. “She’ll be down in a few minutes.”
“In no way does that answer my question.”
“Right, sorry. So I went by the shop and Sophie was already there. She said we were shutting down for the morning because she wanted us to do a water run for the dorms. The trucks are parked out back by my old building. Charlie and Allison are going in the Nissan, and me and Carter are taking the Dodge. Apparently Sophie organized it all with the police. They’ve got a bunch of those big water cooler jugs down at the treatment plant.”
Jenn drove her toes into the soles of her runners. “So now refugees are afraid to leave their homes altogether?”
Sam frowned. A second later, Carter mirrored the expression and frowned as well. Jenn thought the imitation was adorable. “A lot of them, yeah,” Sam said. “Sophie thinks we’ll make a run every few days.”
She was relieved that Sam had found a way of helping that involve something other than wielding a gun or putting himself in danger. There would be no keeping him on the sidelines, and she didn’t want that for him, so this, running supplies to the dorms, was the perfect compromise. Fleetingly, and with a little guilt, she wondered if her big, loud personality had ever kept him from blazing his own trails. He’d never admit that it did, of course, but she made a note to encourage him more often.
“Look at you,” she teased. “Moving up in the world.”
He acted cool and shrugged a shoulder. “Just trying to do my part.”
“Stop being modest,” she said and checked her watch. “Sorry, I need to get started, so I’ll leave you to it. See you tonight?”
“I should be asking you that. You’re the one who’s been working late.”
Guilt poked at her ribs, but as Dylan had mentioned, she would prefer to look back on these past few days and say that they’d overreacted. Making some sacrifices now was a small price to pay. But that didn’t mean she’d forgotten about Sam, and she should let him know that he was on her mind more often than not.
So she stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his. When she pulled away, his eyes were wide with surprise and maybe excitement. “To get you through your day.” She patted his butt. “I promise to try and come home before ten tonight.”
He smiled at her. “I’ll do my best to make myself available.”
“Good,” she said. “Bye, Carter. If Sam gets out of line today, feel free to knock him down a few notches.”
“Don’t worry.” He pretended to punch Sam in the stomach. “I will.”
She let the boys leave and made her way to the study room, where she’d stow her bag and prepare for her shift. Outside the door, she heard voices. Two men. One, for sure, belonged to Dylan. Was she interrupting?
Abruptly, they went silent. Then Liam stuck his head into the hall, his brow knitted together. “Oh, it’s you,” he said and his face relaxed. “Why are you standing around out there?”
“You guys were talking and I didn’t want to barge in.”
“No worries.” Liam waved her inside. “Barge freely.”
Hatless, wavy orange hair disheveled, Dylan stood with his hands planted on a round table in the center of the room. He was fixated on a single piece of paper lying in front of him. At the head was an image of a ponderosa pine. The sight of CFF’s logo made the hairs on Jenn’s arm stand on end, and a sense of foreboding swelled in her lungs. “What is that?” she asked.
Dylan scooped up the flier and handed it to her. “See for yourself.”
“They went out all across town overnight,” Liam said and sat in a chair. “This one was tucked beneath Mikey’s door this morning. Bryce got one, too. I didn’t, and apparently neither did you, so they must’ve missed our street.”
The printed lettering immediately caught her eye; this wasn’t hand-drawn like the protesters’ signs. How was that even possible? On his farm, Grierson must have solar power. Had he used some to run a computer and print these? Below the ponderosa was today’s date in bold caps: Monday, July 3, 2062. Next came a place and a time: McKay Village, NAU, 5:00 p.m. The main text read, Show your support for Flagstaff by joining a peaceful demonstration to ensure our bright future. Meet Vincent Grierson and hear his message.
Seeing red, Jenn scrunched up the flier in her fist, only afterward realizing that Liam or Dylan might want it intact, but she didn’t care. If she had any doubts about Grierson’s role in the attack on the Go Market and Val’s death, they had all but vanished. Gary had encouraged her not to get ahead of herself, but the writing was on the wall. Everything about this mess began with that terrible night.
“It was him,” she said under her breath.
“What was who?” Liam asked her.
“Grierson,” she snarled. “The Go Market. He was behind it. I know he was.”
Liam picked at the corner of his eye, then flicked away something crusty. “Gary told me what you were thinking.”
She wasn’t sure whether to be angry with Gary for sharing her theory or happy that he’d believed her enough to tell a police officer.
“I’ll admit the thought crossed my mind,” Liam continued. “But I honestly don’t think Vincent Grierson’s capable of tha
t, even after what happened to his wife.”
“Happened to his wife?” Jenn echoed. “What’re you talking about?”
Liam turned his head toward Dylan, who thrust out his bottom lip in a way that said he was as confused as she was.
“Oh,” Liam said. “I thought everyone in town knew.”
“Knew what?” Jenn pressed, annoyed with how casually Liam was acting. Usually, she admired his stoicism; right now, it was driving her insane.
“His wife, Faye, was in the hospital when a wave of refugees showed up from Las Vegas. Ruptured appendix. With so many sick people needing help, she chose to forgo antibiotics so someone else could have them. Died a couple days later.”
“Wait,” Jenn started, then paused to digest what Liam had told her. “So you’re saying he blames two thousand refugees for his wife dying?”
“I don’t know if he blames them per se,” Liam said. “I’d assume it’s more complicated than that. Grierson’s third-generation Flagstaff. For better or worse, his heart is in this town. He sees the refugees as a threat to the people who lived here before the bombs. And to be frank, if the refugees hadn’t shown up on the morning of his wife’s hospitalization, there wouldn’t have been any issue about using antibiotics, so there’d be no reason for her to turn them down. So I can see where he’s coming from.” He lifted his hands to preemptively ward off criticism, a slew of which dangled on the end of Jenn’s tongue. “I’m not saying I agree with him. Far from it. But if you’re wondering about his psychology, that’s my take.”
Jenn made a note to ask for Allison’s opinion; she could read people better than anyone. “Okay,” she began as Dylan answered a call on one of his radios. “Sure. I get it. It’s tragic, but doesn’t all that prove my point? The guy’s got a vendetta. Can’t you question him? You’re a cop. You should be able to tell if he’s lying, right?”
“Question him about what?” He scratched the hair on his temple, and dandruff fell onto his black shirt. “I don’t want to sound like I’m roadblocking you here, Jenn, but the straightforward explanation is that someone, whoever it is, attacked the Go Market and Vincent Grierson is capitalizing on that incident to push his agenda.”