by Meli Raine
All eyes turn to Jane.
We wait.
“I was supposed to be handed over,” Jane finally whispers. “As an infant. My mother refused.”
“You're sure?”
She nods. “We found the information in Alice's papers.” A pointed glare goes to Callum. “We digitized them before the house was set on fire.”
Mouth tight, he simply nods.
“Hey,” Lily says softly, staring at her phone. “The news reports are starting. Duff just texted me. We should watch and see how the kids are.”
The kids.
How could I forget about the kids?
Chapter 13
Callum
Mass society news coverage is still so bizarre, even after nine years in The Field.
A small television is on a table against the wall. Lily moves to turn it on, the familiar graphics on screen and tone of the announcer making it clear this is a breaking-news segment.
“...authorities in Branston, Pennsylvania are on the scene at a small campground where off-the-grid nature lovers tend to congregate. A toddler was found wandering this afternoon, wearing lightweight clothing and unable to explain where her mother was. When police officers and child services workers answered a concerned bystander's call, they found...”
“And away we go,” mutters Drew, as Lily turns up the sound.
I don't watch the television.
I watch Kina's face.
The worry that's been etched into the bones of her face comes out in full, stark relief as the story continues, the children's faces blurred out by privacy software. The television reporter handles the story the way that news stations do:
Like entertainment.
News isn't delivered by reciting facts, or engaging true experts in meta-analysis designed to integrate an idea or philosophy into a dialogue that can ascertain truth.
It's about eyeballs.
And Kina's are all over that screen.
“I'm glad they blurred out the children's faces, but Stateless knows exactly who they are.”
“They don't know who all of them are. So far, I've only seen three children on the screen.”
“Whoever is monitoring us knows that's Candace,” she points out, her finger aimed at her face.
“...sie Rodgers, a campground resident, said that privacy reigns at this backwoods sanctuary for people fleeing electromagnetic fields. This area outside the town of Branston has no cellphone tower antennas. So-called 'EMF refugees' seek out areas of land like this, eschewing modern appliances and computers to reduce exposure to electrical and magnetic fields. Susie Rodgers thought the group was part of this subculture, but says she always considered them a bit...”
“'EMF refugees’?” I give Foster one hell of a look. “That wasn't part of the script.”
“The operative is winging it. Turns out to be sort of true, and you know how cover stories go. Make the lie have a kernel of truth in it.”
On screen, the children are loaded into a series of white vans, the camera trained on the receding tail lights as the vehicles move away. Kina's face is so serious, so drawn.
I squeeze her hand. “It's a success. Now Drew's people have to usher them through all the layers of the cover story. We're looking for a home we can acquire that can hold as many children as possible. They all know the cover story cold. Mary said she was excited to use her manipulation techniques on actual mass society people.”
“They don't understand that this is real.”
“Oh, I think they do. The older ones, at least. But let her deal with it all in her own way.”
“Of course.”
Foster flips the television off as the reporter converses with the anchor in the studio, their banter nothing but pablum. He holds his phone up to Kina.
“Text from Philippa.”
I glance as she takes the phone. It says: This is for Kina from Philippa. Everyone's fine. I'm with them as the oldest child kidnapped by the foster parents. I'll keep them safe. You do what you need to do and come back fast. But come back with it done.
“Hardcore,” Foster says with admiration.
I think of Smith. Of the fence. Of how Philippa killed him.
Of what she went through for the last two years.
“You have no idea,” Kina says, squaring her shoulders.
“After tomorrow, when you get out of The Grove, we'll move you to the same city where the kids are, which at this point looks like Erie, Pennsylvania. They're being examined at a hospital and will be in a rehab facility as a transition to their group-home placement with Karen Heimballen.”
“Who?”
“You. That's your new name, Karen,” I tell her.
“Karen? You gave me the name Karen?”
“We can't use Kina, and Sawyer doesn't seem like a smart move, either.”
“Fine. Karen it is.”
“You're a licensed social worker who manages kids with special needs. The group home will be financed through a generous donor and government funding for the kids. We think we found an eight-bedroom house that meets code for kids.”
“You're serious? You think I can raise most of the kids alone, under a pseudonym, while Stateless leadership may try to kill us at any point?”
“You won't be alone,” Lindsay assures me, undoing a bra strap to feed her baby. “You'll have Philippa. The older kids will want to be there and help. And Jane's got plenty of help lined up.”
I look at Jane Borokov, who suddenly freezes.
Kina's brow furrows. “Jane?”
“Alice left me more money than I know what to do with. In this situation, I know what to do with it,” she says, one corner of her mouth going up. “I'm funding the house.”
Foster huffs. “You're funding way more than the house.”
Jane just smiles. “You won't need to worry. Besides, Alice’s ghost would haunt me for the rest of my life if I didn’t do this. Consider it a favor to me. I’ve never been a fan of poltergeists.”
Foster gives her side eye, then looks at his phone, which is buzzing. He stands and walks to the television, turning it back on. President Bosworth appears on the screen.
Chase, who has been deep in conversation with Mark, looks up.
I stare at the screen, shocked by what I see.
“Hokes?” I stand and peer closer. “What the hell is Hokes doing on the edge of the stage?”
“That's Galt,” Mark says, sharing an inscrutable look with his brother. “Who is Hokes?”
Lindsay gasps, moving to the screen with an awkward shuffle, holding baby Emma against her chest. “That's Galt?”
“Who is Galt?” I ask. “Wait. Your father?”
“Yes,” all three of them say at the same time.
“How the hell did Galt get on stage with Harry?” Drew asks Silas, then Mark.
“Now I know who your informant was,” I spit out, pissed it's come to this. “Hokes was a plant? Is that why he helped us escape?”
“Hokes–Galt–isn't our informant,” Drew says, face tight with restraint. “We had no idea Galt was in there.”
“Good old Dad,” Chase says bitterly. “Triple crossing governments and deep state entities isn't just his vocation. It's a hobby.”
“Secret-squirrel-shit is Galt's middle name,” Mark says, shaking his head slowly. “Now we've got Paul Ellison on stage with Harwell Bosworth. You'd think Harry would recognize his dead wife's former lover.”
“Galt looks nothing like he did in the early 1990s,” Drew interjects. “The guy's a master of disguise.”
“He also has a Santa Claus beer belly,” Allie jumps in. “No way does he look anything like he did when he was in his prime.” She looks up at Mark with a solemn expression. “But you really look like him.”
Mark's frown doesn't help matters.
“Stateless would have video at the fence. They'd have reviewed it and seen Hokes helping them escape,” Lily says softly. “Wouldn't they? Why would he be allowed on the president's security team if the
y know he helped the kids to escape?”
“And on that note–why is he there at all?” Carrie whispers.
“He's filling Romeo's spot with the president. Remember?”
“I thought you were promoted to Romeo's position,” Kina says, looking at me.
“I was, in a way. I wasn't assigned to the White House because I have hacking skills that the leaders were more interested in using. But no one filled Romeo's exact position.”
“Until now. Why? And why Galt?”
“If we can figure that out, we can figure out the next move by the faction in Stateless that wants you dead,” Lindsay says.
“This just in, an emerging story out of Cleveland, Ohio. Cuyahoga County emergency services...”
“Turn it off. We need to go over the floorplans for The Grove,” Drew says.
“...school for autism. Among the dead, all of whom were fed chocolate that contained cyanide, were...”
Kina jumps up. “Don't turn it off! Wait!” she shouts.
Cyanide.
“...wards of the state, assigned to this residential campus by...”
“That's one of our compounds,” I start to explain, hating the words as they come out.
Hating the look Kina gives me even more.
“...confirmed thirteen dead, but authorities have not yet completed their search of the premises...”
Foster mutes the television and turns to me. He doesn't have to ask.
“Stateless has compounds all over the world. About fifteen that I know of, but there are likely far more. They hide the groups of children in different ways. An autism school for children who are wards of the court. A yeshiva in the heart of Brooklyn. A performing arts school outside of Toronto. We have one in Abu Dhabi, one in the countryside north of Edinburgh, Scotland. One near Kashmir. A girls’ school in Mongolia, run by American nurses who started a nonprofit.”
“Hiding in plain sight,” Silas mutters.
“Yes. Of course. That's the idea.”
“This is one hell of a signal. They were planning to kill the children we removed,” Kina hisses, her body nothing but emotion in tangible form.
“It is,” I concede. “But it's also a sign that one faction is determined to eliminate the other. We can use that for their downfall. Someone has gone cold-bloodedly stupid. This reeks of human emotion, anger or vengeance or vying for supremacy.”
The sound comes back on. Lindsay has unmuted the screen.
Vice President Ludame is speaking at a podium, a generic blue curtain behind her. It’s impossible to tell where she is.
“Our deepest condolences go out to the families of the victims in Cleveland,” she begins. “The president is currently en route to his home in Southern California. This investigation is ongoing, and until we have further information, or some group claims responsibility, the poisonings are not considered to be a terrorist attack, but–”
Kina and I groan.
Every set of eyes jumps to us.
“Not a fan?” Jane asks dryly.
“Romeo hated her. Deeply. She's considered an enemy of Stateless. I always wonder why the president picked her as a running mate,” Kina says.
“Two words: Tex and As.” I pronounce the last syllable as if it has a second S.
“She got him in by a squeaker. Now they're an item,” Jane says with a bitter laugh.
“Doesn't add up,” I insist.
“Harry's using her for cover. Josephs probably hand picked her. They need someone to distract the American people from what's really going on.”
“Those poor children,” Lindsay says, tears rolling silently down her cheeks, Emma now asleep in her arms. “Killed to send a message.”
“Killed because they can. Because some of our leaders view them as objects. Not fully human.”
“That's not just a Stateless issue,” Silas says. “Lots of people think that way. I almost married one.”
I don't even want to know what that means.
“We need to go to the president's home now,” Kina insists. “Before more children die.”
“In the morning,” I assure her. “He's not there now.”
“Why can't I go now and just get Glen's information? Does he have to be there?”
“Don't you want to question him? Feel him out?” Lindsay asks. “Daddy will talk if you get two or three good shots of Macallan in him.”
“I think I need two or three shots of something to get through this conversation,” I say under my breath to Kina, who yawns.
“Look,” Chase says, standing and walking to the fridge. He grabs a can of soda and pops the top. “I know this: Allie and I live a quiet life by the beach now. I got my nursing degree and I work in an ER. That's as much excitement as I want in my life from now on. My dad's involved in this mess up to his eyeballs, but that doesn't mean I want to be.”
“Chase,” Allie chides him.
“No–let me say the rest,” he tells her. We go quiet, but I'm on guard.
“El Brujo was a mean, nasty, perverted piece of shit, but he obviously knew how to live as many lives as he needed to live to get what he wanted. Same as the president. People like that find a way to come out on top. Always do. Until one day, they're shot in the face by the woman they least expect to do it.”
“Like Philippa,” Kina murmurs.
“I'm talking about Allie. She killed El Brujo. She succeeded because he underestimated her. The one everyone underestimates is often the one who ends up being the strongest of the bunch.”
I look at Kina.
She says The Mule, mouthing the words without sound.
The Mule.
Chapter 14
Kina
A phone buzzes. Drew looks at his screen.
“New info. Thomas is even better. He’s drinking on his own, and they gave him some stuffed animal that he won’t let go of,” Drew tells me, the shift in topic jarring.
“Wonderful,” I say quietly, my softness a cover for overwhelm.
“Kina?” Lindsay asks, still holding her tiny toddler. Instinct makes me hold out my arms, the offer wordless but understood immediately. Never in my life have I taken a baby from his or her mother's arms. Every baby I've ever held has been under my care and mine alone.
This one I can hand back.
This one I'm not responsible for.
A rush of warmth fills me as little Emma snuggles against my shoulder, her cheek slack, arm hanging at her side as I slip her upright. She’s drifting off, deep in trusting land, the only place a child should be when in their mother’s arms.
Lindsay got her there. I just need to keep her trusting and safe.
Lindsay walks to a small sheaf of papers on the table and pulls three out. They're hand-drawn floorplans.
“I'll be with you,” she says. “I know my way around, and it will distract attention from you. You'll act like you're Glen, and it sounds like the techies are going to hack the biometric security systems so you can breeze through.”
“Won't be hard,” Callum says confidently.
“Famous last words,” Silas mutters.
“The side entrance is here.” Lindsay points to the drawing. “Security had to change once Daddy became president.” She continues speaking, but the word Daddy is jarring to me. I never had a dad. No man appears in my dreams. A mother, yes.
A father?
What is a father, much less a daddy?
Romeo flashes through my mind. I shudder. Yet he's the closest male figure I have.
I shudder again.
“The main office is here,” she continues, finger on the paper. “That's the small conference room for meetings. And Glen's office is here. Marshall's next door. But that's not where Glen spends most of her time.”
Drew takes one of the other copies and points. “His bedroom–it’s a suite. It's big. And Glen sleeps in Lindsay's old bedroom.”
“Sleeps,” Lindsay says, using finger quotes, her otherwise calm face filled with disgust.
“Bottom
line: I'm going to ask Harry for a private meeting. I'll make up something. The goal is to get the Secret Service agents out of the room. They don't stay in the bedroom when Glen and Harry are sleeping together. What we want is for them to be gone while you go in, pretend to be Glen, and gain access to the computer files. Is Glen the type to keep paper notes?”
A strange cloud of shame covers me for a few seconds. “I don't know.” I'm embarrassed to know so little about my own sister's habits.
“It's fine. Do your best. But we only have one chance. Your cover story is that you came to California early to help Harry deal with the fallout of so many domestic situations.”
I nod, absorbing the plan, finding where it lives inside me so I can see all the parts as a coherent whole.
“We have clothes for you. We grabbed some images of Glen at press briefings. Callum gave us your sizes and someone from Drew’s office bought a suit today, and the rest of what you need. If you brush your hair back and play with the fringe around your forehead, you can pass for her one hundred percent,” Lindsay adds.
“I'm curious about something,” Jane muses, moving closer to the copies of the floorplan but not looking at them. “Why haven't they come after us?”
“Huh?” Drew's grunt is almost comical.
“Lindsay's brake lines were cut when she was being targeted by John, Stellan, and Blaine. My car was blown up. Lily was shot in her own flower shop, and plenty of people who tried to talk to me, like Jenna and Mandy, were murdered. Kina and Callum have just escaped one of the most notorious domestic terrorism organizations–so deep state, only intelligence operatives know they exist–and we haven't been attacked?”
“Our guys caught a car bomb,” Drew tells her. “We aren't being reckless.”
“But that's it? A car bomb? Why haven't we been attacked from the air? Or–I don't know,” she says, suddenly uncertain. “Maybe I'm being paranoid.”
“You're not,” Mark Paulson says, moving closer to Carrie. “It's a good point.”
“And now we're all here, in one place at the same time. Every woman in this room was a victim of a plot concocted by someone connected to Stateless,” Jane continues. “And... nothing?”