METAtropolis:The Wings We Dare Aspire

by Jay Lake

  Charity stepped over him to tower over Frost. “You’ll serve better,” she said before looking around again. George followed her gaze. The pinned deacon’s screams were subsiding to whimpers as he lay limp over the fender. The others were gathered around him, looking like lost sheep. George watched her counting them.

  “Frost sent three around back,” George said.

  Billy was stirring again and George was surprised at the ease with which Charity dragged him to his feet. Molly was ready with the duct tape.

  They approached the back door together with Charity holding her pistol just beneath Frost’s rib. George’s hands slowly remembered the weapon though he’d never thought he might use it on a person before. The notion of it made his stomach churn.

  “I have your preacher here,” Charity shouted through the door. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

  Frost’s voice overpowered hers in a bellow that George could barely understand. “I’m glory-bound, boys, if she puts me down. So you stand firm in the armor of God and send her to the judgment seat of Christ.”

  Charity punched him in the side of his head with the revolver. “I’m not talking about putting you down, Billy,” she said. “I’m talking about hurting you.” Her voice lowered and George knew that if he could see her eyes now, what he saw there would frighten him. “And you don’t want me to do that.”

  “You all fall back,” she shouted again. She nodded to Molly. “Open the door and stand clear.”

  Charity slipped an arm around Frost’s throat, standing behind him for cover, bending him backwards and forcing him to shuffle forward slowly. George raised the shotgun as the door swung open.

  The waiting men had faces bathed in uncertainty. Even the older one didn’t seem to know what to do. He lowered his rifle when he saw the woman moving forward, using his pastor as a human shield.

  George moved forward, shotgun raised. “You should put down that rifle,” he said quietly.

  Frost protested; Charity squeezed his windpipe. The man stooped and laid it down, stepping back with raised hands. “I think things have gone a bit too far here, Pastor Bill.” Then, he backed away.

  “I agree,” Charity said as she continued moving forward. George followed, the butt of the shotgun still firmly tucked into his shoulder. “Things have gone a bit too far. We’re going to slip over to your County sheriff’s office and sort it out right now.”

  George could see the glass door, brightly lit, at the base of the County building just down the street. They moved slowly and he tried to imitate the way Charity scanned the terrain. He heard the sound of another car and flinched at the thought of more of Frost’s men showing up. But this one continued on down Main Street, its engine growing fainter as it moved away. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes.

  It took them just a few minutes to reach the sheriff’s station, Molly trailing behind. When they did, Charity peered through the glass. “Lower the shotgun, George, and open the door.”

  He did and she moved past him. As soon as she entered the lobby, she called out in a loud voice. “I’m Sergeant Charity Oxham,” she said, “Edgewater Security, D.C., on assignment for U.S. Senator Sandra Rodriguez. I’m armed and have a prisoner. I’m coming in.”

  George waited outside the door with Molly, his eye on the back of the pharmacy. Frost’s men still lingered there and he saw that two of them now propped up their Associate Pastor between them. The gray halo of a nearby streetlight added something sinister to Wilkes’ angry glare.

  When he glanced to Molly, the light she stood in painted her angelic, her face calm but concerned.

  She’s not afraid; she’s sad. And then it dawned on him that at least some of how a world was healed was exactly that. Sadness—rising up from the recognition of a species’ potential and an understanding of its failings and successes—replacing fear and all of its machinations.

  Because we could be so much more than this.

  He looked at Frost. Fear had driven the changes they were seeking. And fear had governed his own life for as long as he could remember, coring it into something hollow that pretended to be joy. Even his slow crawl away from faith had been riddled with it, as the fear kept him behind a pulpit he hated, preaching words he could not believe.

  George blinked at the power of his realization.

  He felt a hand on his arm and looked over at Molly. “You look sad, George,” she said.

  He smiled at her. “I guess I am,” George said.

  * * *

  Charity came through the door and let it close behind her. The man at the desk looked up, surprise obvious on his face.

  Charity repeated herself. “I’m Sergeant Charity Oxham, Edgewater Security, D.C.”

  His eyes went wide as he recognized Frost. His voice was muffled by the clear bulletproof partition that separated him from the small lobby. “Pastor Billy, what—”

  “Reverend Frost is in my custody,” Charity said. “The way I see it, you and your men can either complicate an already complicated situation or you can help simplify things. At this point, failing to respond to shots fired is your only complicity in the matter. Don’t make it worse.”

  He blinked and she watched the fight go out of him. But one look at him when she entered the room, and she knew he’d cave fast. “What do you want?”

  “I want an all channels broadcast that Frost is in my custody.”

  He looked at the radio and then back to her. “Sheriff called radio silence three hours ago.”

  She thought for a moment. “Do you know who Patriot, Inc. is and what they do?”

  He nodded slowly.

  “This situation is going to unravel really fast, Deputy, and I can assure you that no one will be unsoiled in the shit-storm that is coming your way. You have a choice to make.”

  Thirty minutes later, Cathlamet was crawling with men and women in dark windbreakers and ball caps. Black helicopters, running silent, shuttled additional agents into town through the high school’s football field where they were met by colleagues in SUVs.

  Charity sat in a cluttered office. They’d taken Frost and she suspected he was en route to Portland already. She’d seen Hunter only briefly and the woman had frowned. “Wait here for me to debrief you,” she said in a sharp voice before she was off barking orders to other men and women. From what she could see, an elaborate net had been laid out here and the events of the night had forced things faster than anticipated.

  So she waited.

  When Hunter finally came in and sat down, the sun was up, shining bright despite the dark clouds north that threatened. “We’ve taken twenty six ECs,” she said, “including Frost and Wilkes.”

  Enemy combatants. Semantics that she understood well. These men would not be facing a trial any time soon. Instead, they’d spend the next few years answering questions over and over again. “Where are they going?”

  Hunter looked at her and Charity felt her eyes measuring her. Finally, she spoke. “Seattle for now. The foundation owns a facility offshore. Eventually, they’ll be taken there for rehabilitation.” She paused. “I don’t know if you want to know this or not but I’m going to tell you anyway, Charity. Your father’s book, Unmasking the Fear in Faith, is required reading for all of us on this particular team, including the counselors that will be working with these prisoners.”

  It was his first book and it had broken out, taking Dr. Jeremy Oxham out of his psych classroom in Maryland and into a life of signings and speeches and debates. Five books later and he was dead. She shook off the memory. “And what about the twenty men they sent out?”

  “It’ll take us some time,” Hunter said. “We’ve got a lot to sort through here. They’ve managed to block most wireless traffic these last two days so we’ve got nothing there. But we’ll start interrogations later this afternoon in Seattle. We know they left by boat and by car but our surveillance has been spotty. The river has a lot of shipping activity on it and there’s a maze of old logging roads in and out of here—far too man
y for us to watch. We’ll get them.”

  “You sound confident.”

  Hunter nodded. “I am. We have another development that gives me a bit of hope. It involves you, actually.”

  Charity felt her eyebrows raise. “Really?”

  “I’ll send the details over by wireless after we’re done. Approximately two hours ago, your boy—Matthew Rodriguez—turned himself in to the Portland Edgewater offices with an attorney retained by his mother.”

  She leaned closer, blinking. “He turned himself in?”

  Hunter smiled. It was tight-lipped and devoid of any real happiness. “He did. It seems he changed his mind. Called his Mommy and she pulled some strings. He’ll be held at a facility in D.C. and has agreed to cooperate with us in the investigation. I argued for him to stay with the others but your friend has some significant connections. The senator also insisted that you be assigned as his transport officer. We’ve got a jet waiting for you at PDX.”

  After all of this. And he’d turned himself in. It made no sense to her and she opened her mouth to say so but thought better of it. Better to take what she could and get the fuck out of Dodge.

  Hunter continued. “We’ll have a lot more to talk about with you but we can do that by vidcon later in the week. The senator was most insistent about having her son back in D.C. by tomorrow.” Her tone told Charity all she needed to know about how the woman felt about this and she wasn’t sure she disagreed. “So I’ll have Magnuson run you out to the ball-field and put you on our next chopper out.”

  The agent stood and smoothed her pantsuit. Then she extended her hand. “You’ve been a bit of a wildcard, Oxham,” she said, “but you did good work here today. My report will reflect that.”

  She wanted to say something snarky about endangering civilians in their game of cloak and dagger but she bit her tongue and shook the offered hand. “Thanks,” Charity managed to spit out.

  When Hunter left, she stood and collected her things. She stepped into the hallway and saw both George and Molly in separate offices, nodding and talking to the suits and their digital recorders. She felt a compulsion to say goodbye to them, particularly to Molly, and it surprised her.

  She’s the girl I might have been, Charity realized. If she hadn’t lost her father at fourteen. If she’d never gone to war and learned to kill. There was a strength she shared with Molly, but hers had bent in a different direction with life’s stresses and fractures. The girl’s strength was gentler, fueled by her idealism and confidence.

  Tonight was her first event as director of the Wahkiakum Community Center and Charity knew that regardless of what else happened today, six o’clock would find Molly opening the doors and welcoming any who took her up on her invitation.

  And Charity would head to Portland, collect her friend’s son and return him to D.C. She would wait out her administrative leave and consider Patriot’s offer if it came through. She would go back to work, regardless. She would do her part to heal the world in the only way she knew how.

  The girl looked up as Charity watched her. She smiled and raised a hand in farewell.

  Charity returned the gesture. Then she stepped outside into a crisp autumn day and climbed into the backseat of a car that was waiting for her.

  * * *

  The sun was down and the single streetlamp cast the church parking lot in a dirty light. George had spent the day talking with one agent after another, breaking only to wolf down the burger and fries that Hunter had delivered from Rosie’s.

  After lunch, she’d taken him to Frost’s house where a dozen men and women pored over the property with white cartons, gathering evidence. He’d spent two hours there answering questions.

  And then they’d arrived at the church. Three hours. He rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn. His shoulder throbbed and his head wasn’t far behind. He could feel the dull ache growing.

  “You’re doing great, George. We’re almost finished. Do you remember anything else at all?”

  He looked at the barracks and then back to Hunter. “There was a doctor,” he said, surprised he’d not remembered it sooner.

  “A doctor?”

  George nodded. “Frost and Wilkes were talking about it on the phone. When we pulled in yesterday, he was going into the barracks with Wilkes. Dark skin, green jacket, black case.”

  The look on her face told George that they weren’t almost done after all.

  An hour later, George’s head pounded when she dropped him off on Main Street. Patriot had arranged a room for him at the Bradley House but he was hungry and didn’t want to be alone. He felt cored out, hollow with exhaustion.

  He looked down the street at Rosie’s, saw its welcoming lights.

  No, he thought. It would be busy and his head couldn’t stand more chaos. Across the street, the pharmacy lights were on as well.

  Molly. It was Friday night. The casserole cook-off.

  He walked across the street, driven by curiosity. He heard quiet music playing on the other side of the door and he paused. But there was no other sound. No conversation. No dinnerware clattering.

  George pushed open the door and took in the room. The tables were arranged to easily seat thirty. In the corner, a radio played classic rock from the last century and at the far end of the room sat a table with a solitary casserole dish and serving spoon.

  “George.”

  He looked up and saw her framed in the door to the back room. She had a glass of iced tea in her hand and a towel over her shoulder. She was the only person here. “I guess I’m early,” George said.

  She shook her head. “You’re two hours late, actually.”

  He looked around again. “Everyone’s already gone?”

  She smiled. “No one came,” she said. The smile widened. “But you’re here. Let’s eat.”

  She sat him at one of the tables, brought out the pitcher of iced tea and another glass. Then she dished them both generous portions and they ate while Bono sang about not finding what he was looking for.

  When they finished, they carried their plates into the kitchen to wash them. As George dried the plates, he looked over at her. “So what next?”

  She shrugged. “I do the same thing next week. And the week after. And the week after.”

  “And if no one comes?”

  She smiled. “Someone will come. It’s only a matter of time and persistence.”

  “And when they do?”

  “I’ll teach them to be the answer to their own prayers,” she said. “I’ll help them create a sustainable community that works to connect what they already have rather than focusing on what they don’t have.”

  He looked at her and he could see that she believed it. Even he believed it if he was really honest with himself. It might not happen fast, but he did not see her giving up. Instead, he saw her winning hearts one at a time. He wasn’t sure at all how she would do it, but he knew that she was going to heal at least this part of the world.

  “I think you’re right,” George finally said.

  “About what?”

  “About casserole healing the world.”

  She grinned. “Wait here. I have something for you.”

  She left, drying her hands, and came back with a package. It had been wrapped in newspaper and duct tape. “Don’t open it here,” she said.

  “What is it?” But he knew what it was, just as he knew he’d be up late tonight reading a new gospel that put humanity’s well-being squarely upon its own shoulders.

  “It’s just my casserole recipe,” she answered.

  * * *

  Charity pushed back into the airplane’s seat and stared out the window at the darkness. There had been delay after delay in Portland as she waited for Patriot to release Matthew into her care. It was past dark when they boarded the private jet Rodriguez had arranged.

  She’d only talked to her friend briefly, long enough to tell her she had Matthew and was getting on the plane. She could hear the strain in Rodriguez’s voice and she heard oth
ers talking hurriedly in the background before the senator was rushed off the phone.

  Damage control underway, Charity thought. A U.S. Senator’s son arrested in a domestic terrorist plot couldn’t possibly help Rodriguez’ newfound political career. Of course, Charity hadn’t seen or heard anything all day about the incident in Cathlamet in Portland’s local news. She wondered how long Patriot and its foundation could keep things quiet?

  They were alone in the cabin of the plane and she glanced over at Matthew. He wasn’t the boy she remembered years ago. He had an edge to him that his close-cropped hair and dark eyes accentuated. He sat quietly, reading his Bible. He’d spent most of his time with the book, moving from passage to passage, and she saw the pages covered in small, cramped notes with verses underlined or bright yellow from a highlighter.

  In their time together, she’d seen no evidence of remorse and had gotten no sense of regret. It perplexed her and she found herself not grasping why he would turn himself in.

  But then again, the whole notion of her friend’s son becoming a terrorist perplexed her as well.

  “Why?” She didn’t realize she’d asked the question aloud until he looked up.

  “I don’t have to talk to you without my lawyer,” he said. His voice was cold.

  She sighed. “I just don’t get it, Matthew. I don’t understand how you could’ve possibly thought this was the right way. And I don’t understand why you would turn yourself in after all of this.”

  Their eyes met and she saw a fervency there that unsettled her. When he smiled, she shuddered. “’Fear none of those things which thou shalt suffer,’” he quoted, his eyes closing as he called up the words. “’Behold, the devil shall cast some of you into prison, that ye may be tried; and ye shall have tribulation ten days: be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life.’” He opened his eyes and fixed them upon hers. “I’ll pray for you,” he said, “that you’ll be given ears to hear what the Spirit is saying.”