Redaction: Dark Hope Part III

by Linda Andrews

  And if the meeting’s event and the explosion were connected, bad news was heading their way.

  Eddie ran his hands through his hair. The dark curls stood on end. “Do you think either of them is an engineer? I mean, one wore pilot’s wings and the other was a Marine. They don’t seem to be taking the threat seriously. Christ! That explosion could have brought the whole mountain down on our heads. Might still.”

  Papa Rose’s ground his teeth together. “Don’t catastrophize. You’ll panic people.”

  If the rising tone was any indication, Buttcannon already teetered on the verge.

  Eddie gulped air into his lungs and stomped to a halt in front of Papa Rose. “I’m not panicking or catastrophizing. I’m the one who has to rebuild the thing. Again.” He glanced at the door before gesturing to the wreckage inside. “And there’s not much of anything I can salvage.” He winced as another thud of metal slipped into the tunnel. “Less than nothing after those asshats get done.”

  Papa Rose shrugged. The fifty-five gallon barrels had already been shredded and crushed—what could a few more dents and dings matter? “How many times have you rebuilt the machines?”

  Eddie rolled his eyes. “How many times have the electrolysis machines exploded and left us in the dark?”

  “About twenty times.” In the last couple weeks anyway. A lot more than that at the beginning of their underground hibernation. Then the air had gone stale. Fast. Everyone had been ordered to sit down and move as little as possible. There’d been more of them then. But even with their population so low, they could easily run out of air within a few hours or less.

  And now it looked like someone was advocating mass suffocation.

  Papa Rose took a deep breath, calming the twitching in his arms.

  “Forty-two in the last week.” Eddie hung his head. “I’m just patching things up, keeping it together. Forrest’s design eliminated most of the problems. I hadn’t had to repair his machine for eight days. Eight.”

  “Impressive.” At least, Buttcannon made it sound like good news. Papa Rose wouldn’t know. Until he’d been drafted as a counselor for the survivors, he’d been a tattoo artist. Hell if he knew what he was doing ninety-percent of the time.

  “It was very impressive. And now the machine is gone.”

  “So? You can rebuild it and refurbish the others to be just like it.” Simple. Maybe.

  Eddie’s head snapped up.

  Maybe not.

  “You don’t get it, do you? I only saw it once, maybe twice, up close and personal. I never worked on it, never fixed it. Forrest did all that. Now he’s gone, and so is what he did.”

  Well, shit. Papa Rose pushed away from the wall. Had the assholes who planted the bomb known about its unique design? “Do you think that’s why the machine was targeted? Because it was different?”

  “How the hell should I know? I’m a buttcannon, right?” Eddie rolled back on his heels. “I ain’t paid to think none.” He slurred the words like a hillbilly stereotype.

  Papa Rose grinned. “Sorry, I missed the chip on your shoulder because of the darkness.”

  A thought mushroomed inside his head. He may have missed something, but Buchanan was damned observant.

  “Yeah, well.” Eddie glared at him. “How would you like being called buttcannon every day? Or coming home smelling like crap because you had to crawl into the sewers and unclog the pipes? My friends practically run to the other side of the room to escape the stink.”

  That would be irritating, especially since the man’s work was building their new society’s foundation. Papa Rose glanced at the partially shut door. Since the brass didn’t seem inclined to interview them, he might as well do a little investigating. Chat a little, find his paranoid baseline. “And your wife?”

  “My what?”

  “That fine-looking woman I’ve seen you with. Andie, isn’t it?” Papa Rose deliberately messed up the teacher’s name.

  “Audra.” Eddie’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know her?”

  “She teaches my oldest two girls, Jillie and Olivia, English.” Papa Rose shrugged. Technically, they weren’t his daughters. But since he and his buddy, Falcon, had found them near their dead parents, he’d claimed them. And they claimed him, saved him from offing himself. He shrugged off the thoughts. Focus on the topic, man. “What does Audra think about your old job in the fertilizer business?”

  A muscle jumped in Eddie’s jaw. “Got me all figured out, don’t you, Cue Ball?”

  Papa Rose ran his hand over his bald head. “Trying to figure out who set the bomb. Got any ideas who did this?”

  Eddie thumped his fist on his chest. “Oh right. I would know. I’m an ex-con with a history of violence. I’ve already murdered one man.” He snorted, shoving his face inches from Papa Rose’s. “So what’s one more or a hundred? Right?”

  Holy shit! Papa Rose held his ground despite the other man crowding his space. He’d been around trained killers in the military, but Eddie had never served. His posture was hunched, protective—a prisoner’s stance. The Doc had never flagged him as a felon in the files she’d given Papa Rose or Falcon.

  “Huh.” Eddie backed up. “You didn’t know. Mr. Big Shot head shrinker didn’t know about my rap sheet.”

  No he didn’t. The Doc had better have a good reason for her silence. This man had been around his children—little ones he’d vowed to protect. Damn, maybe his gut had been wrong. “So did you set the bomb? After all, what’s one more or a hundred? You already have blood on your hands.”

  Eddie stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I wanna meet someone under twelve that doesn’t.”

  Evading the question. Not a good sign. “But you were in the penn before.”

  “And I wasn’t released for good behavior neither. I waited for enough guards to fall ill, then me and some others, we just walked out. I wanted to die free.”

  The idiot seemed almost proud of his record. The idiot… Underneath the bravado lurked something else—fear. Papa Rose stilled. Damn, he’d almost been conned by a con. The man had killed to protect someone, someone he loved. He knew the look, saw it every time he managed to meet his own eyes in the mirror. One day maybe he’d find peace.

  One day, but not today.

  “Free isn’t being crushed to death by a mountain.”

  “What? Don’t you want to know all about my kill? You can be the big hero and turn me in for the bombing. Case closed.”

  Yeah, it would be easy. Too easy. An explosion on Buttcannon’s first day presented two strikes against him. Something was definitely wrong with this picture.

  “You didn’t do it.” Papa Rose nodded. The words tasted true. His gut confirmed it. “But if you want to talk, just between us—one murderer to another, I’m willing to listen.”

  Christ Jesus! Had he really just offered to tell this hothead his story? If word got around that he had brought the Redaction to Phoenix, that he had survived while the influenza killed loved ones… Hell, he might be invited to step outside for a few x-rays or whatever those nuclear rods spat out.

  Eddie kicked at a rock on the ground. “You’re a soldier, not a murderer. It’s not the same thing.”

  “I know what I did, Buchanan.” Maybe he’d get lucky and the guy wouldn’t spill his guts. Or maybe, he’d lost his marbles and really bought into thinking he could help people. “Question is, are you willing to trade a story for a story?”

  Eddie’s eyes narrowed as his gaze raked Papa Rose from head to toe.

  A rock clattered inside the room. Confession time would have to wait.

  Hinges creaked when the woman opened the door. The Marine looked up from her computer tablet. Blue light elongated her nose and chin while her eyes disappeared into their socket. “Gentleman, you were freed to get medical assistance an hour ago. The doctor’s on standby and your family has already been notified.”

  “Fuck,” Eddie swore and wedged a hand through his hair. He fidgeted looking first at the tunnel to the elevator
then the Marine.

  Papa Rose’s hair stood on end. He smelled something fishy. “Don’t you want to take our statements?”

  She sighed and tucked a stray hair into the bun at the base of her skull. “You didn’t see anyone or anything, right? Just got a ringside seat for the explosion, right?”

  Papa Rose planted his feet on the ground. When she put it like that… “I smelled the C-4.”

  She licked her lips and checked her tablet. “And we’ve confirmed it with a residue test. We’ve also found bits of a timer that we’re collecting for forensic analysis.”

  Was that what all the bumping was about? “You have? You did?”

  Well, all right then. Papa Rose stumbled forward a step. Maybe he should look up the signs of paranoia when he got back to his room. He could trust the military. They were his people. So why was his gut in knots?

  “Let me know if you think of anything that might be of use.” The Marine hugged her tablet to her chest. “And I’d appreciate your discretion about this matter. We don’t want to panic anyone.”

  “Sure.” No problem. They were investigating, that’s what he wanted.

  Limping beside him, Eddie followed him around the corner. “You’re not buying that load of horseshit, are you?”

  Papa Rose turned around. “What do you mean?”

  “Did you see them enter with any instruments? Analyzers?” Eddie poked the elevator call button.

  “No.” The Marine had a computer but the pilot had nothing in his hands.

  “Exactly, so how did they confirm any fucking thing? They’re lying. The question is why.”

  Well, fuck. Papa scratched his chin. He should have noticed the oddity. He’d bet good money, folks were used to ignoring the grease monkey. That could come in pretty handy. “You up for a little investigating?”

  Chapter Twelve

  That went better than expected. Whistling under his breath, Dirk aligned the top of his tablet computer with the bottom as the conference room emptied. The Doc and her minions would soon be on the outs and real Americans would take over. Average Joe and Jane Citizen would no longer be at the mercy of political agendas. Screen against his body, he tucked the computer under his arm.

  Someone bumped his elbow and he looked up at his buddy, Kevin. A smile hung on his lips. “Hey.”

  Kevin’s ruddy complexion deepened. “Excuse you.”

  Watching his friend stalk away, Dirk pinched his bottom lip. What was that about? Didn’t Kevin know he’d been handpicked by Dirk and his friends to head the new government?

  “Murderer!” A woman with flaming red hair and white roots hissed.

  He leaned back in his chair. “I didn’t—”

  “Come on, Mildred.” An Asian man in tan Dockers and a blue Polo shirt eased a tablet computer from her hand. “He isn’t worth it.”

  The odd couple huffed out with a handful of others on their heels.

  Dirk sucked in his gut and pushed to his feet. The Doc’s lies about him and his company deliberately delivering the anthrax-laced toys may have turned some survivors against him, but it was only a temporary victory. Those who recognized corruption when they saw it would know the falsehood was a lame attempt to divert attention and discredit him—proof that he’d been right about the attack.

  Smiling, he squeezed between the tables. He could use that for his candidate’s platform. Honesty and integrity. Yep. It may have taken an apocalypse, but the people would finally get this country on track. He glanced up.

  Two men whispered at the front of the room.

  Perfect. His candidate had waited. A twinge of pain spiraled down his back. The little power outage had delayed the meeting longer than he’d expected. Maybe he should have arranged for it to have happened earlier? Nah, this way gave him the best alibi—the big shots themselves.

  Tucking a chair under a table, he lumbered on. Pain needled his feet with each step over the uneven ground. He wiggled his numb toes. As soon as he returned to his room, he’d put on his slippers and rest his feet. Someone else would have to cover his trash duties. He was in too much pain to work today.

  Kevin eyed his approach. He angled his body closer to Jake and bent his head.

  “Kevin.” Dirk raised his hand. “I want to talk to you about a very important matter.”

  Kevin flushed to the roots of his red hair. Thrusting out his jaw, he fiddled with the port-wine birthmark on his pointy chin. “I have nothing to say to you. Nothing.”

  With a sneer, he turned on his heel and stomped from the meeting room.

  “That’s gratitude for you.” Dirk heaved to a stop next to the front desk. He had half a mind not to tell the man about his good fortune. He would too, but he’d have to convince his partner in this crusade to find someone else.

  Jake tapped his stylus on the table. The rhythm competed with the dripping water in the room. “What did you expect? You’ve just been accused of being the Grim Reaper. Of course, he’s going to keep his distance. Everyone will until this dies down.”

  With a sigh, Dirk stooped enough so his gut rested on the table. “Not everyone will believe that malarkey. Those of us in the know will see it as the death throes of a corrupt regime.”

  “Us?” Jake shoved his laptop into his leather briefcase. “There is no us.”

  That old line again? Dirk frowned. “Knock it off. We won today. Thanks to you, we’ve got elections coming up.”

  Of course Jake did knock back the timetable to a month. They’d have to work on their communication skills. And think of new ways to show up the false government’s ineptness.

  Resting on his fists, Jake leaned across the table. “I did that to establish a legitimate government so we can move past the conspiracy bullshit.”

  Dirk caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. Right, an audience. Jake had to be careful so as not to compromise his position before the coup d’etat was accomplished. Then again… A twinge tweaked his insides.

  Then again, Jake had betrayed someone before.

  And he’d used Dirk to do it. Well, he wasn’t going to be a patsy. Didn’t Mr. Hotshot Lawyer realize Dirk had saved their emails as proof? If things went sour, he wasn’t going down alone. He glanced at the hallway. No one in sight. Maybe it was time to make his position clear. “Listen, I took the rap for the fried chicken, shielding you and your girlfriend, but I won’t do that again, ya hear?”

  Red flooded Jake’s face. He slapped the briefcase flap closed. “I didn’t ask you to.”

  Good, his message had gotten through. Dirk Benedict was no one’s fall guy. “Just so we’re clear.”

  “We’re clear.” Jake yanked the case off the table. It thumped against his thigh as he strode to the door. “Now stay away from me.”

  “What about Kevin? You still wanna pick him?”

  Jake paused. His mouth opened and closed. “Pick whomever you want.”

  Licking his lips, Dirk watched him go. Pick whoever he wanted? Was that a test?

  Or was he trying to pass the buck, if the candidate lost the election?

  He trudged toward the door. Nah, they couldn’t lose the election. Their cause was just. The American people would see that once they woke up. And they would wake up. Today’s blast was just the first of many surprises.

  Just as he reached the entrance, his laptop chimed.

  He flipped open the lid. An envelope with a number one flashed on his screen. A new email. Had Jake decided he cared about the candidate after all? Dirk eyed the desks ten feet away. Put up his feet or read the email? His bunions ached, but…

  But he was a patriot.

  Country came first. He hissed with each step. Nine feet. Seven. Five. Pain flared up his back. Damn injury. Two. Hooking the top of his foot around the chair leg, he dragged it toward him. Metal scratched stone and echoed down the hall. Let them look. He had nothing to hide.

  Groaning, he sank onto the hard seat. A bell sounded again. The number in the envelope rose to two. After setting his laptop on
the table, he wrapped his hands around one thigh and lifted it. His arms squeezed his belly as one-by-one he moved his feet onto the chair next to him.

  He wiggled on the seat until he found the sweet spot. Ahh, blessed relief. He opened his email.

  Jake a.k.a. Simpatico had sent him a message—one marked urgent; the other normal.

  “Jake. Jake. Jake.” Dirk muttered. “Despite your little games, anyone could discover it’s you with just a little digging.”

  He knew because his friend had started his little secret identity after their philosophical dinner conversation about the state of humanity in general, and their cave system in particular. He tapped the message with the red exclamation point next to it.

  A man died in the explosion.

  Ahh, that explained Jake’s reaction and his lame attempt to put distance between them. In their email communications, the lawyer had been a bit squeamish about anyone getting hurt. This was war; it was only natural some people would pay the ultimate price. Turning the screen so it resembled a traditional laptop, he rested his fingers on the keys. He teased the bumps on the f and j key before replying.

  “We timed it to—” He paused then prodded the backspace key. No point in incriminating himself. “It happened early in the new kid’s first shift.”

  There. Nice and vague. He clicked send then opened the next message.

  Kevin may be the wrong choice.

  “No shit, Sherlock.” Loyalty wasn’t so much to ask for when he was practically handing the man the presidency.

  Unless, you arranged Kevin’s little public betrayal, perhaps we should consider approaching Stuart Graham about running for election.

  So Jake didn’t appreciate Kevin’s attitude either. Dirk scratched his chin. Stuart Graham. Did he know him? He clicked on the attachment. A man with blue eyes stared back at him.