Dresser takes out a Sharpie and draws another circle, this one around the county that has Drury Falls at its center.
“This is the last place we absolutely know they were. And we’re pretty damned sure they took the buggy here,” he says as he points to Drury Falls. “We have eyewitness reports that they were in Drury Falls, and it looks like the intel we had that said they’d caught a semi ride south was false. And—by the way—if anyone finds that bearded wino in Drury Falls who gave us that little prize piece of counter-intel, I’d like to talk to him.”
He surveys the faces gathered around the table. “But what I really want to know is: where are we on finding these turds? Because I’d put my whole salary—which is freaking huge by the way—that the doc and his robot are still in—this—circle.” He emphasizes the last three words by jabbing his pointer finger into Drury Falls.
One of Dresser’s agents clears his throat, and when he sees Cyrano look up at him, he speaks.
“We’ve gone door to door, farm to farm across the whole southern half of the county,” the agent says. “It’s slow work.” Then he adds, “Nothing.”
Dresser slams his hands on the map and crumples it up in his hands. Then he grabs a laptop from a desk near him and, slamming the top closed, tosses it over the heads of several computer techs. The laptop smashes against the far wall and breaks into pieces.
Dresser stops. Takes a deep breath, then smiles. He scans the room for a full minute, making eye contact with anyone who isn’t already staring at their own shoes. Then he turns to leave.
Halfway out he stops, turns, and points at the agent who last spoke.
“Search. The. Other. Half,” he says with a low growl.
Then he waves another agent over.
“What is it, boss?” the agent says.
Dresser whispers, “Lewis, I’ve got a job for you. Send Feinberg to Karachi. I want him wheels up tonight. Then put out the word to the jihadis that he’s CIA and we’re willing to trade him for that New York Times reporter they’re holding.”
“Are you serious?” Lewis asks.
“Yeah.” Dresser smiles. “A useless analyst. Hasn’t seen a gun fired in anger since The Farm. And, crap... I forgot to ask. How’s Marcia?”
Agent Lewis’s lips form a nervous smile. “She’s fine, Cyrano. She wanted to thank you for the basket you sent. She and the baby should be home sometime tonight. I have a Skype call set up. Gonna see the baby for the first time.”
“Excellent!” Dresser says, patting Lewis on the back. “And how many is this? Is this your fourth girl? Is that right?”
“Yeah. The fourth, can you believe it? I don’t know what I’m gonna do when they all start dating at the same time.”
“We have ways to make it go smoothly,” Dresser says with a half-laugh.
* * *
Dresser steps outside and lights a cigarette. The day is windy and his trench coat flaps behind him and he has to cup his hands to get the cigarette to light. Just as he takes a long puff and exhales dense smoke into the breeze, an agent dressed in black approaches and says, “Sir,” before handing him a cell phone.
“Yeah,” Dresser says into the phone, “talk quickly.”
A voice, obviously being run through an algorithm that alters it, says, “Ready for the deluge, Dresser?”
Dresser takes a deep draw on the cig, inhales, and then blows the smoke out through his nose.
“I don’t have time for this,” he says. “What deluge?”
“Pretend I’m Noah. You’ve been warned,” the voice says.
Dresser stares at the phone for a moment. Then he spins around, looking for the agent who’d just handed it to him. The man has disappeared.
Did he go inside? He had to. I’d have seen him if he’d gone back to the parking lot.
Two more agents pull up in the black Lincoln, and Dresser waves them over.
When they’re within distance, Dresser grabs one of the agents by the lapel. “Someone just handed me this phone. Dressed like one of us. I... I didn’t recognize him. He just went inside.”
The two agents move toward the door, and Dresser shouts at their backs, “I want him found!”
The two agents pick up their pace and hurry inside. And just as the door slams shut behind them, a tremendous explosion rocks the building.
Dresser is thrown to the ground. Debris rains down around him, and he shields his head with his hands. Somehow the cigarette is still locked between his lips, and he pulls in a long drag. As soon as the smoke from the explosion begins to clear, he looks up and sees that the door to the command center has been blown outward. What’s left of the cratered steel door now hangs limply from a shattered hinge at the top. Fire licks out through the opening, causing paint on the doorframe to bubble and smoke.
Dresser shakes his head. His ears ring, and he presses the flesh of his hands to his ears, trying to equalize the pressure. Just inside the door, he sees a body in the flames. The man is dead, but still recognizable.
Lewis.
Struggling to stand, Dresser looks down at the phone in his hand. He puts it to his ear, and for a moment there is silence. Then...
“Forecast calls for rain, Cyrano.”
The line goes dead.
Dresser tosses the cigarette butt to the ground and pulls out another. Placing it between his lips, he cups his hand and lights it.
“Looks like Feinberg ain’t gonna see Karachi,” he says to himself. “Lucky bastard.”
* * *
Carlos Luna, dressed all in black, rubs his freshly shaved head. He tosses the burner cell phone into a pile with a bunch of other devices, then picks up a second cell, dials, and waits for someone to pick up. When they do, he says, “Just sent a message. Initiating Deluge.” He listens for a moment, then answers, “It’ll take a day or two to get the parameters locked down, but we’re going forward. No test this time. This time it’s for real.”
CHAPTER 19
I’m working in the pumpkin patch, hoeing weeds. Daydreaming a little about what life would be like if I ever was to marry April Troyer. I’m thinking about the weeds, and how you always have to fight them back, and how maybe that’s what happened between me and Cruella. Marilyn. Maybe we stopped fighting the weeds back and they just took over.
It’s funny how you never have to fight back the actual beneficial plants—the ones you actually want to survive. They’re never hardy or invasive. You almost never have to take a hoe and spend endless hours destroying food-bearing plants because you just can’t get rid of them.
It’s probably not a perfect analogy, but it works for me.
That’s when I hear Mose shouting, and the alarm in his voice breaks through my reverie.
“Doc!” Mose yells. “Doc! Come quickly!”
He meets me halfway back through the patch, and it’s obvious he’s shaken up about something.
“What’s going on, Mose?” I ask.
Mose is breathless. Like he’s run all the way from the house.
“It’s... It’s...” He puts his hands on his knees, sucking air as greedily as he can. “It’s the boys. Something happened.”
“What happened?” I ask again. “Is everyone all right?”
Immediately visions flash through my mind. Visions of Frank... Ben... crashing his way through town, causing mayhem and destruction.
Please don’t let it be that.
Mose straightens up and arches his back. His eyes are a little wild, so I brace myself for the worst.
“There was trouble. At the market.” Mose sucks in air again as sweat beads on his face.
“Okay, take a minute. Catch your breath.”
“No,” Mose says. “It could be bad. He changed, Ben did. No one saw it. Well... that’s not true. There were some Englischer boys there. Drunk. Causing trouble. They saw it, surely. And...”
“And what?”
“And Elder Gene Strasser. He saw it too.”
“Oh, no.” It’s all I can think to say.
“The En
glischer boys started picking on John. It’s not completely unusual for this to happen. It... happens. They know we’re not violent. That we won’t strike back.”
“Oh, no.” It’s still all I can think to say. It’s the only thought reverberating through my mind.
“One of the Englischer boys pushed John down. They were in the parking lot, not far from the wagon. And then he hit my boy. Bloodied his nose.”
We’re walking back toward the house now. Every part of me wants to run. To get to Ben. But Mose is still out of breath, so we walk.
“Did Ben hurt anyone?”
“No. No. He didn’t at all.” Mose is starting to catch his breath, but he stops walking so he can talk. “But he changed. Right there in the parking lot. Changed into that thing... and ran those Englischer boys off.”
“And then what happened?”
“Sarah was up in the wagon, waiting to go. She doesn’t like to walk around too long, so she was waiting and resting her eyes. She heard the shouts and screams and she hopped down and ran to the ruckus, but it was too late. So she got Ben bundled up in a lap blanket and brought the boys home.”
“And... an Amish elder saw all this?”
“They’re pretty certain he did. He was there in his buggy, plain as day, and Sarah doesn’t know for sure because he didn’t say anything, but he was watching as they pulled away.”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh no is right,” Mose says.
We pick up our stride again, and when we get to the house, Ben is in the kitchen with Sarah and John. John is holding a wet towel to his face, and there’s blood on the towel and watery blood dripping down his arm. Ben sits silently with his head bowed, his body still wrapped in the blanket. He stims a little, but the movement is only barely noticeable.
I stand close to Ben and put my hand on his shoulder.
“Let’s go get you dressed,” I say.
No one else speaks, so I walk Ben back toward the doorway. As I walk by John, I put my hand on his shoulder, and he nods at me without saying a word. There’s a piece of broken glass by the sink, a small garden hand-scoop on the ground, and some lemonade spilled on the counter. Mose must have been getting a drink when the wagon pulled up. I try not to over-imagine things, but I’m a noticer.
* * *
Ben has been telling me the whole story. And he’s shown very little emotion or remorse. He said the Englischer boys had been stalking them throughout the market, calling them names and making fun of them. John told him to not worry about it, that it happens sometimes, but that God sends us temptations to test us.
As for me, I’m not sure that God is behind it all. Maybe He is, but I hate to lay the blame for stupid teenage bullies on God’s doorstep.
I help Ben by laying out a fresh set of clothing, and I turn around as he dresses.
“They just wouldn’t let up,” Ben says. “They started pushing us and shoving us, so we were heading back to the wagon to leave. That’s when they jumped John.”
“And you decided to change? To put everything at risk just to scare some bullies?”
Ben starts to stim a little, and I see that he has his bolts next to him on the bed. He must have picked them up after the confrontation. When he was standing there naked and Sarah was trying to cover him with the blanket. Now he picks up his bolts and holds them tightly as he speaks.
“I can’t say that I decided to change,” Ben says. “I suppose I did. But I wasn’t going to let them stand there and beat on John.”
“That’s exactly what you should have done, Ben!” I say. My voice is a little loud, but my mind is racing and I’m scared. Honestly. I’m scared about what this means. And about what comes next.
“Maybe,” Ben says.
“They wouldn’t have hurt him too badly,” I say. I don’t know that, but I suspect it. “And... c’mon, Ben. You’re Amish, for God’s sake!”
“I know.”
“And you know what the Amish believe about violence, right?”
“Right.”
“All that turn the other cheek stuff? And how God tests you to see if you really trust Him?”
“I know all that.”
“And still you changed?”
“I did.”
At this point I don’t know what to say, so I just stand there quietly. Then I hear Ben begin to cry.
This is the first time I’ve ever witnessed him showing real, deep human emotion. I turn, and he’s sitting on the bed, his shirt only halfway on. His shoulders are moving with his sobs. I sit next to him and put my arm around him.
“I... I shouldn’t have changed,” he says, tears running down his face.
The scientist in me, the methodical doctor with low latent inhibition, starts analyzing the crying protocol. Real tears are flowing, and the mechanism that is Ben is moving exactly like a young boy would move while crying.
Perhaps this is my way of distancing myself from the situation. I’m terrified of what this event means for both of us. Of the Transport Authority, or whoever, finding out where we are. Of being forced to run again. But that’s not what’s scaring me at this moment.
What scares me is that the boy is crying, and it’s my job to comfort him. He’s crying, and my heart breaks for him.
I’ve never been a father.
“I shouldn’t have changed,” Ben says again. “I know that. It was wrong.”
“That’s good, Ben,” I say.
“And I shouldn’t have scared those boys. I’m sorry I did that.”
“That’s good, too.”
“I won’t do it again, I promise,” Ben says through his tears.
“I know,” I say, though I don’t know. I can’t know.
And it may not matter now. They’ll probably kick us out of the community, and that could be the least of our problems. If someone else saw. If those boys report what happened. If they call the police...
“I promise I’ll never change again,” Ben says, and he begins struggling with the shirt.
I put my arm around him and do my best to calm him down.
“You can’t promise that,” I say. “And we don’t yet know the consequences of what happened today.”
“I want to stay here,” Ben says.
I look at him and sigh. “I do too.”
I stand up to leave, and I hear Ben start to pray.
* * *
There is a meeting set up with the elders for tomorrow. I’m sitting on the porch when Mose comes to let me know. He tries to tell me not to jump the gun. Not to just assume we’re going to get kicked out. But I know better.
And it may not even be up to them.
“There could be bad men coming,” I tell Mose. “Bad men who want to kill Ben and me.”
“There are always bad men,” Mose says. “We don’t live in fear of what bad men might do.”
“The elders won’t let us stay,” I say, “and even if they do, if I know the authorities have learned we’re here, I’ll have to take Ben and go.”
“Maybe it’s time you stop trying to figure everything out, Doc,” Mose says. “Let’s talk to the elders and see what they say. It’s not like there’s a time limit for everyone to make a decision.”
But there’s the thing: there is a time limit, and it has almost reached zero. I count quickly in my head, although I don’t need to. I already know. Tomorrow is the last day when I can turn Ben off and end this whole thing. He could die silently and painlessly in his sleep. And I could just bury him and run away. Just contact Carlos and disappear into the wind.
I look at my watch and realize I haven’t worn one for what seems like a very long time. Time is different out here in Amish country. Sometimes it’s like it doesn’t exist. But somehow it still seems to dictate everything truly important in our lives. The clock is ticking whether I wear a watch or not.
So kill the boy and save yourself. Easy peasy.
I don’t even bother to tell Cruella to shut up. Because I know it’s me that’s saying it.
* * *
I see Ben to bed then reach over and power him down. I need time to think, so I walk out into the moonlight and begin to consider all my options. There’s a gentle breeze as I step off the porch of the dawdi haus and stroll toward the barn. The moon is up, and I smell fresh mulch and cut grass and the faint hint of squash flowers blooming over by the drive. I need a smoke and a drink, but I have neither.
I have maybe twenty-four hours to shut Ben down if I decide to. Maybe less. Maybe twelve. We have to meet with the elders in the morning, so if I’m going to do this and run for it, well, tonight would be the night.
Who knows if those boys called the cops? Maybe the Amish elder did. Gene Strasser. Maybe he notified the cops rather than keep this mess “in house.”
Nah. If he did that, we’d probably be overrun already. The whole farm would’ve been fried by a missile by now. Some micro-nuke they could explain away as a methane explosion.
Hard to imagine that we could die before morning. But I guess when you think about it, that’s always true. Isn’t that what we used to pray?
If I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take?
I haven’t prayed—really prayed—in a very long time. Maybe it’s time I do.
So I pray. Earnestly, at least at the beginning. And, as often would happen, at least back when I used to pray, my prayer morphs into a conversation. Maybe the conversation is with me. Maybe it’s with God. Who knows?
I ask myself—or God—what it is to be human. What is it, I ask, that makes us worthy of life?
In every way that I can think of, Ben is human. Maybe he’s even more human than I am. So my thoughts dwell on that for a while. Then I ask myself: “Can I kill a man?” A boy. Can I do that?
I suppose I can. I’m about as bad as a man can be. I mean, there have been serial killers and Hitler and all those epic tyrants, but in the end what did they really do? Didn’t they take life into their own hands? Didn’t they play God? Isn’t that what I’ve been doing all along?
Yeah.
So I know I can kill Ben if I have to. And knowing that gives me no solace or comfort. None at all.
I think back to my last conversation with the boy, right before I powered him down in his bed.
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