The Incendiaries_A Novel

by R. O. Kwon

  * * *

  –

  The following evening, unable to face the long hours of searching online, I invited Leigh to the apartment. We sat down to stir-fried bigoli, I burned my mouth with a pull of gin, and I talked. Leigh listened, eyes filling. She stayed the night, but then, in two days, when she turned up on the doorstep without notice, I thought I’d made a mistake: I’d led the girl to expect more than I could give. The bell pealed, and I threw on a shirt, but it was Leigh. She surged up in front of me, papers in hand.

  I ran straight here, she panted. Flapping newsprint at me like a broken wing, she told me that, as she passed the Ledig Street kiosk, she’d noticed Phoebe’s name in bold print on the front pages.

  I took the papers, which showed a blurred photo of a girl who looked like Phoebe, in a baseball cap, the thin face angling up. Puzzled, I examined the picture. In it, a black-haired ponytail curled through the adjustable slot, but Phoebe disliked how she looked in hats. Unless it was so cold that she had no choice, she didn’t use hats, let alone baseball caps.

  What’s this? I said.

  It’s a picture from the Noxhurst clinic. The parking-lot camera. Will, they’re saying she planted the explosives. The ones at Phipps clinic.

  Well, that’s not right.

  You should look at this.

  I read the article. It didn’t mention John Leal, let alone his cult. It said that, in the video, the girl in the baseball cap walked up to the clinic, then glanced at the camera. She’d been identified as Phoebe Haejin Lin, an Edwards student. The next morning, five additional Jejah cultists were named, including a new person I didn’t recognize: all suspects, but Phoebe was still the principal culprit implicated in the Noxhurst clinic explosions, and so in the five girls’ deaths.

  The following manhunt elicited false leads in Philadelphia, then Lihue. In Detroit. Slidell. La Paz. The abandoned house where they’d stayed was discovered sixty miles north of Noxhurst, a shingled rental cabin in a birch clearing. News stations looped its photo. The cabin was still front-page news by the time I received a three-line note from Phoebe. From Fitz, that is, since federal agents had intercepted the mail, opening it. Not long afterward, Reverend Lin, Phoebe’s father, issued his public statement. He explained he’d donated to the extremist cult that called itself Jejah. He’d given his personal savings, as well as, with his board’s approval, church funds.

  I believed it to be an organization with peaceful aims, he said, reading. To all those who have been hurt, I beg pardon.

  He gripped a white page, his hands fists. His chin, like Phoebe’s, ended in a point. Tight-jawed, he jutted it out. It was my first time seeing the man. Phoebe hadn’t displayed photos of him. I blamed him; of course, I did. I’d heard the stories. If he’d been less brutish to his then-wife, wouldn’t Phoebe have felt less alone? But also, I thought, if I’d failed less. If and if again. He said nothing in his speech about having received a message from his child. He didn’t want to mention it, perhaps. It was possible, too, that he wasn’t allowed. The police, maybe Fitz, had told him not to. If Phoebe had written to me, she’d have sent him a note, as well. In spite of his faults, she had old-fashioned notions about filial duties, his parental rights. That said, if she hadn’t written to him, it could also be a sign. I called his house. He didn’t pick up, but I was relieved. It had been a mistake, calling. I’d talk to him in person, I decided. I bought a flight to Los Angeles.

  38.

  JOHN LEAL

  —the truth is, he told them, they were just getting started.

  39.

  PHOEBE

  One of the earliest memories I have takes place in L.A. While I slept, she noticed we had no milk. It was still the two of us. She’d run out to buy it, she decided. The store was down the block. It shouldn’t take long. I woke up when she’d gone. I called out, expecting the usual hello; instead, for the first time, I heard solitude. I rushed around the house, but she wasn’t to be found. I tiptoed, and I realized I could reach the front doorknob. I’m not sure, though, if this isn’t just a tale I’ve been told: at this point, I slide inside my mother’s head, then I watch as she did. Milk jug in hand, I listen to a high, distant wail—a child’s, I think, but it isn’t until I’ve left the store that I start to laugh, astonished. I forget the milk. I let it fall. I throw both arms open to this wild child, flying toward me.

  40.

  WILL

  I rented a station wagon at the airport, then I drove to Phoebe’s father’s church. It was a fifteen-mile drive, with the traffic as hectic as I’d always, in the L.A. I invented, believed it would be. I found the church doors locked, its parking lot vacant. I punched the back wall, several times, until I opened skin. Knuckles burning, I got in the station wagon; I drove toward Reverend Lin’s house. It wasn’t the Sabbath, but still, with his sizable parish, the church should have been open—

  I parked several houses down from his. The street was quiet, lined with palm trees and tidied hedges. In the pale light, the lawns floated wide, like magic carpets, and I thought of Phoebe living here in the months before Edwards, grieving. She’d longed to escape; as had I, but here I was, still so God-haunted. I walked on blackened palm fronds, a tangled pile: I imagined lifting up the lush jumble of leaves and finding it was Phoebe’s hair, disheveled with morning. The stem of a frond shone as white as the part of her head. She’d raise a hand, then drop it, unwilling. I’d tease her out of bed since, having had the night apart, I’d want Phoebe with me again.

  No one replied to the bell. When I peered through a glass hexagon into the attached garage, I saw no cars. Taped boxes stood heaped to the ceiling. I wondered about Phoebe’s piano trophies, if she’d kept or trashed them, all those gilded, first-place spoils. Once, I’d made the mistake of asking if her father had also insisted she keep playing. He didn’t attend a single recital, she said. Then, considering, she added, Maybe he wanted to, though. It’s possible he just wasn’t invited. I wouldn’t have cared, not at the time.

  I slid down, hitting sloped concrete, and then I crawled around to the side of the house, where I’d be less in sight. I didn’t think it was legal, being here. Ivied leaves starred a white lattice. Noticing a scrap beneath a wilted stalk, torn hazard tape, I picked it up. I spat on it, then rubbed it clean. Thin plastic rippled to the touch. I sat against the wall.

  The day the rest of Jejah’s warrants were issued, Jo Hilt had been located in a private hospital in Lott, Connecticut, receiving in-patient psychiatric care. She released a brief written statement: hoping, she said, to give what answers she could. I’d have predicted that, as he tightened control of his disciples, John Leal would have introduced the idea of public violence. I knew, too, how he’d have convinced them. Privileged childhoods, the lifelong habit of achieving: all the shared Jejah attributes others have found baffling would have helped him instill the bravado to do what God, in His slow-moving wisdom, had not.

  But Jo claimed it was Phoebe who’d first raised questions about Phipps clinic. In the spring, she’d begun asking if they shouldn’t be doing more. Local clinic protests had declined in size. Every few minutes, children died. If they could, for instance, disable abortion facilities, the action would save lives. It would be the rational extension of what they believed. Since no one but John Leal had spoken, to date, with God, Phoebe asked if he’d take the question to Him. Jo didn’t think he would: in general, he’d told them what to do, not the reverse.

  Jo hadn’t learned what happened next. In mid-April, Jo’s parents, Sybil and Elijah Hilt, had realized that, despite the large allowance she received each month, Jo had drawn extra funds from her trust. Disturbed, suspecting drugs, they drove up to school. While questioning Jo, Sybil had noticed whip marks on the girl’s leg. They disregarded all attempts to explain; against Jo’s will, they’d taken her home, to Darien. She cut her wrists, then was hospitalized.

  John Leal had rented the upstate cabin to use as a spi
ritual retreat, starting in June, Jo said. They’d all given their savings to Jejah. Phoebe supplied the most—everything she had, as John Leal pointed out. By then, the group comprised six members, including Eric Cho, the newest recruit. Jo had left the cult before they started using the cabin, but if I tried, I could almost see the place in June. Birch branches gleaming white, like picked bones. They lit bonfires until the sweat flowed into tears. The light tinged the circling trees with blood. They fasted, atoned. Tired bodies ached with hope. Through a haze of smoke, stars smeared like souls fleeing this fallen earth. The night chill pricked Phoebe’s bare arms, as if with pinfeathers, and she felt the rush of flight, lifting up. In that isolated place, the plausible might crack open until she had the revelation she desired, a final, ecstatic fit—

  But no, she wasn’t the kind to have visions, no more than I’d been. I thought of what she’d said that last night, about acting as if she believed. From the start to the finish, Phoebe’s want of Christ had been based in logic. She wished upon God’s attested promises: the dead alive, a past repealed. This flawed world would pass, yielding to a place of undivided light. Since she lacked real belief, she might have resolved to match His pledge with action, proving the faith she craved.

  Then, in the final instant, she’d have required but a little hope, a short leap of faith. Soldiers require months of training, years, before they’re fit to battle, while all Phoebe had to do was put a truck in a parking lot. Several minutes’ conviction, and the building falls.

  I wondered when they’d learned how much had gone wrong. In Phoebe’s note, she said she watched Phipps clinic collapse. Truck bombs placed, timers set, the others could have made it back to Noxhurst. They reunited on an Edwards rooftop, then opened the wine bottles. He’d have relished the call to celebrate. The building exploded. If they also noticed the whirling lights, police cars rushing toward the site, they wouldn’t have thought much of it. That night, they might have driven upstate; exhausted, they slept well. It wasn’t until the next morning that they’d have jumped from bed, running to the television.

  Where’s the—

  I have it.

  There! Stop!

  While they watched, they fell quiet. What girls?

  It’s Phipps.

  Phoebe then hid with them in the cabin. If Jo’s right, if, she lived with the added guilt of having proposed the idea. But no, in fact, the more I’ve thought about it, Phoebe wouldn’t have disputed John Leal’s approach to the clinic, not in front of his group. She valued tact. If she wanted to question him, she could have pulled him aside, in private. Docile so long, she’d have been more pliant, not less.

  No. He told Phoebe to bring up the idea to Jejah. With his impresario’s instincts, he staged God’s approval of his plan. She followed his script, but she didn’t like lying. In time, she doubted his use of tricks, what such deceit implied. It was why she looked at the camera. In defiance. No one else was so rash. It was Phoebe’s last, deliberate tie, to preclude turning back. I believe, Lord, help Thou mine unbelief: the skeptic’s usual plea.

  He’d have tried to console them. Several deaths, he said, versus the thousands killed before 5:00 each night, and that’s just here, in this one failing nation. God’s will. Spilt milk. She strained to accept his logic, but she wouldn’t have been able to stop thinking of the five girls, the juvenile bodies blown free of an explosion, floating in pieces to the shingled cabin. Handprints glinting on bathroom glass, a hint of charred flesh: flickering at the edge of sight, these hostile children filled Phoebe’s dreams.

  When she learned she was the principal suspect, Phoebe might have been relieved. It was an excuse to leave; it would help the group if she could be apart from them. She left without telling anyone, driving south. Still upstate, she paused to post the note to me. If it’s true, as has been reported, that the others have since slipped through Montreal, then Jejah long ago obtained false passports for everyone, including Phoebe. They had the funds. She kept driving: into Mexico, perhaps. From there, in disguise, she might have taken a plane. She could be anywhere.

  I’d last heard from Fitz a week ago, before I decided to go to L.A. In the news, I’d been identified as Phoebe Lin’s old boyfriend; since then, I had reporters calling, along with patriots who wished me dead, in jail. Shot. Praised. So, when a restricted number flashed on my phone, I put it down. It rang again. It wasn’t until the fourth call that I answered.

  It’s Agent Fitz, she said.

  I’m hanging up.

  You don’t want to do that. I have news for you.

  I was in Norton Hall, going to class. Swerving left, I went into a single-person bathroom. I locked myself in. You had that footage when you talked to me, didn’t you? I said. With Phoebe. The tape. You lied to get me to tell—

  Don’t be a child. You knew what I was doing. If you didn’t, you’re a fool. I’m calling because I said I’d help find Phoebe, and I hold up my end of a promise. It’ll be out before long, but I wanted to tell you ahead of time.

  Fitz said that a man, a Noxhurst local, had been jogging down the Hudson. It was as he approached Hoyt Bridge that he glimpsed the long hair he’d seen in photos, a blue dress, falling from the rail. But Phoebe didn’t own blue clothing. She thought it washed out her skin. He didn’t see a face, so it might have been anyone. It could have been nothing at all: a flock of black-pinioned birds, flicking mid-flight, like a ponytail. The feathers shredding trapezoids of blue into the trick lines of a girl’s dress. Less than a mile from the clinic, he’d have had the attacks in mind. I let Fitz persist, talking, until she admitted they’d failed to find the alleged suicide’s body.

  Based on evidence I can’t disclose, she said, the bureau has concluded the man did, in fact, see Phoebe fall from a bridge. She sent you a note we had to intercept: I can’t give it to you, but I’ll make sure its contents are passed along.

  I have to go, I said.

  I switched off my phone; I laughed until I couldn’t breathe. That evening, I received an email from Fitz, the note digitized, then attached.

  I watched from the roof while God’s hand flattened the killing mill. I thought I’d see the face of God and live. Will, I’ve since learned that it’s possible to love life without loving mine.

  * * *

  –

  I left the house; I drove around. I returned to the church, then again to his house. But I found no sign of him. I passed the light-glossed billboards. In this hot, sun-blanched limbo, I circled back and forth between his house and church until I fell asleep in the front seat. The next morning, the church parking lot sparkled with cars, packed in lines, like sheaved fish. I’d arrived in the middle of a service. I found a stall in front of the church, with a woman sitting behind the table. She smiled as I walked up, but when I asked if Reverend Lin was preaching, she said no.

  Is he leading services this week?

  No.

  When will he be here?

  He is having break, she said.

  I went to the airport. The flight I’d scheduled would have taken me straight back to Noxhurst, so I changed the ticket, routing it through San Francisco. I waited to call until I was on my mother’s front stoop. The phone rang from behind the fence. When I said where I was, she rushed out, still in gloves. She wiped her eyes, brushing soil on pale skin. I tried to lighten the mood: I asked if she was in the habit of gardening with a phone in hand.

  Oh, this, she said. I can’t hear the phone ring from the yard, and I don’t like to miss it when you call. What a surprise. I’m so glad. Let’s go inside.

  * * *

  –

  But do I have it wrong, Phoebe: did you act in faith, not doubt, the clinic bomb a tribute to the God you loved? I’ll say this: I hope so. If I can’t imagine you lit with His fire, it’s possible I’m limited, not you. In the apartment, when I left, I discovered the kidskin journal in which you took notes before Jejah confessions
, jotting down what you’d tell them, us. It was stashed behind a pile of books, where Fitz and Hugh, of course, had searched. Soft-leathered, tied with a thong strip, it has the look of a journal. Yet they missed it, a bit of grace I can’t explain. I’ve imagined as I could. I compile what I have of you, parts of it firsthand; the rest, inferred. Details accrue, taking on a living shape. I fill in the clues. I recall what John Leal said, how his shining lies persuaded you. I can’t forget what you said, that I hadn’t even tried to understand. Phoebe, I still don’t think He’s real. I believe that we, in the attempt to live, invented Him. But if I could, I’d ask Him to give you everything.

  * * *

  –

  If you did jump, though. I used to preach that God holds us on a lightweight leash that will stretch to span the miles and years. We imagine ourselves free, but with a flick of His wrist He’ll bring us back to Him again. It takes less than I used to think from this hope of reunion that it’s not, from what I can tell, the truth. I think of the hours you spent in that Olympic pool. You’d turned so strong. Muscle-built. The Hudson, at Hoyt Bridge, isn’t wide. It might have been cold, but not past surviving. It would be such an artful ruse, Phoebe, if this is how you’ll elude pursuit: in having pretended to die.

  * * *

  –

  The months flashed past, into a final Edwards term. I found a roommate, Bilal. He slept in the living room, behind a partition. I told Leigh I should stop wasting her time. Though I avoided the clinic site, I noticed an article about plans to build an office plaza. I thought, at times, I heard the distant drills, reveilles beating like a pulse. I wasn’t sleeping much, but I threw out the pills; I tried to drink less, living to prove I’d changed.