Jacob let himself out. A moment later, the lock turned.
Nine
Now that she had looked, she could not stop looking.
Olivia paced the confines of her shed, trying to walk away from what she could no longer ignore. In a corner of her mind, Brian lay dead.
But was it real?
She couldn’t sleep. Watching from her unsteady perch, Olivia saw more vehicles arrive. The grass parking area in front of the ranch house filled with SUVs, sedans, even a couple of motorcycles. The riders wore gray ponytails and shirts with the sleeves hacked off, like aging hippie bikers. Olivia counted at least twenty people. Most—but not all—of them were male. They shook hands on the porch, pointed toward Olivia’s shed.
Around 1 A.M., a silver Hyundai Santa Fe arrived. The guard in the Castro cap, Dee, opened the gate, checked the vehicle, and let it pass. It must have been the last one. After it rolled through, Dee secured the gate and walked to the ranch house. The Santa Fe parked among the other vehicles. Five men climbed out. Four were Japanese, all of them wearing suits. The driver, in chinos and a chambray shirt, looked like a ranch hand.
Several men, Robbie among them, had been smoking and talking on the porch. When the Hyundai pulled up, Robbie abandoned his chair and came down the steps, plugging his cigar in his mouth and offering his hand to the Japanese, shaking hands and doing a little awkward bow to each one in turn. Instead of going into the house, as everyone else had done, they spoke insistently to Robbie and kept pointing toward the shed. Olivia couldn’t hear what they were saying. After a couple of minutes of discussion, Robbie brought them in her direction.
Olivia got off her chair and retreated to the sofa. Her heart beat faster. The door opened, admitting a whiff of Robbie’s cigar smoke. He stood aside, and the four Japanese men pushed up to the doorway but did not enter. They stared at her, and she stared back. The silence became unnerving.
“Who are you?” Olivia said.
No one answered.
“You can’t keep me here. You can’t do this.”
“Do not be agitated,” one of them said.
“I am agitated.”
“Enough?” Robbie asked.
“Yes,” the man who had spoken replied.
They withdrew, and Robbie closed and locked the door again.
* * *
Olivia woke out of fitful dreams. She rubbed her eyes. Dust motes drifted in a slanting shaft of sunlight. Something had awakened her, a noise.
The sound of a key.
The door opened as Olivia rolled off the sofa bed she hadn’t bothered to open. She stood, groggy with bad sleep. Dee, the guard, entered. She wasn’t armed. Others, all men, lingered outside.
“What now?” Olivia said.
“They’re going to take some of your blood,” Dee said.
She heard the words but almost couldn’t process them. “What?”
“It’s no big deal, but you’ve got to let them do it. No fighting.”
“Nobody’s sticking another needle in me.”
“If you fight, it’s going to get rough. So don’t fight, okay?”
A rawboned man in a corduroy sport coat with patches on the elbows stepped into the shed, his thick white hair like a swoop of whipped cream. He held a black leather kit in his right hand. Two young men followed him inside. The white-haired man looked ill at ease. The younger guys looked eager.
They left the door open.
Olivia could see the gate in the distance behind them. There was no one attending it. Would it be electrified, too? Even if it were, the mechanism to open the gate was right there. If she could manage to get out of the shed, maybe she would have a chance to make a break for the woods. But even as the thought occurred to her, the hopelessness of it descended. Before that dread could smother her, she started to make her move—
But Dee moved first. Without knowing how it happened, Olivia found herself pinned to the floor, her right arm bent at an unnatural angle and the guard’s knee pressing into the small of her back.
“Lie still,” Dee said. “It’s nothing but a blood draw. I promise.”
Olivia struggled.
The young men started to move in.
Dee said, “Stay back. I’ve got this.”
The young men looked at each other. One of them shrugged, and they remained where they were.
Dee dug her knee in, making it hurt.
Olivia stopped struggling. “Okay, all right.”
The doctor, or whatever he was, opened his kit on the desk. He took out a syringe.
“He’s not going to hurt you,” Dee said. “You understand?”
Olivia gritted her teeth. Dee removed her knee from Olivia’s back and helped her sit on the sofa bed. The doctor approached.
“Roll up your sleeve,” he said.
Olivia complied. The doctor swabbed her skin at the crux of her elbow and drew two vials of blood. He held one up to the light and shook his head, as if he were put out by the absurdity of it all. He turned to leave. When Dee didn’t follow the other three out the door, the doctor looked back.
“I’m going to stay with her, calm her down before it starts,” Dee said.
He looked doubtful.
“It’s all right,” Dee said.
“I’ll have to tell Cranston.”
“Go ahead.”
The doctor mumbled, unhappy. He pulled the door closed behind him but didn’t lock it, since Dee had the key.
“Before what starts?” Olivia said, already thinking about overpowering the guard and making her escape. Which was a joke. She would have had as much chance overpowering a mountain lion.
Dee said, “I know you’re thinking it’s just you and me now, the boys are gone. Right? Don’t try it.”
“I wasn’t thinking that.”
“Yeah, of course not. Listen, I don’t need the boys.”
Olivia rubbed the small of her back. “So I noticed.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You didn’t?”
Dee grinned. “Well, not so it lasts.”
“What’s going to happen to me?”
“They’re going to evaluate you. It’s like a board of regents. They want to know whether you can perform, I think. I’m not positive how it works. Women are never allowed to see the inner-circle operations. Which is bullshit. We’re all part of the Society.”
“The Society? What the hell is that?” Olivia felt like a contestant on an un-reality TV show.
Dee glanced over her shoulder, as if someone might be listening at the door—the same thing Jacob had done. She dropped her voice. “You don’t need to know that yet. I’m not supposed to talk about it. But we’re doing something really, really important.”
Olivia nodded at this crazy person. “Right. You ‘assure the future.’”
Dee’s mouth opened and her eyes got wide. “Who told you that?”
“Jacob.”
Dee sighed, visibly relieved. “He shouldn’t have, but I guess it doesn’t matter. He’s the Shepherd; he can do anything he wants. Listen. If you’re accepted—and if what I’ve heard is true, I think they have to accept you—you will be the first woman Shepherd in the history of the Society.”
Great, Olivia thought, I can’t wait to put that on my résumé. “Why wasn’t he supposed to tell me about assuring the future?”
“Some of the Elders think you should be vetted without any prep.” She glanced at the door again. “There’s some hostility about you and about the direction of the Society in general.”
“Naturally. Look, what exactly are they—”
“I can’t tell you anything else. Just answer their questions honestly. There will be a lot of them.”
Olivia hoped the questions made more sense than this conversation did, but she wasn’t hopeful. “If you’ve never seen the inner workings, how do you know how many questions?”
“I’m . . . friends with someone who knows. It’s kind of a test. If you pass, it’s going to be one of the greatest da
ys. There’s never been a woman before. I think it will make a difference. Some of us have wanted this to happen for a long time, so don’t screw it up.” Dee smiled reassuringly and touched Olivia’s hand. “Just kidding. Since you’re legit, you can’t screw it up.”
“What if I fail?”
“You won’t fail.”
“But if I do, will they let me go?”
“You won’t fail.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, I guess.”
“You’re going to be fine.” Dee crossed to the door and opened it. “Here they come.”
Ten
Cranston and Robbie escorted her to the house. Dee walked behind them. Olivia felt small between the two large men, but she was used to that. She was also used to the whole testosterone effluvium that dominated men at war, or men at work, or, really, men everywhere—especially when they perceived their dominance under threat. What was strange in this situation was that Olivia, so far as she could see, presented exactly zero threat to the dominance of this man-group. Yet there it was: In some way she didn’t yet understand, they feared and resented her. The older men showed her respect, but it was the phony, condescending respect of the boys’ club for the female interloper.
On the porch, Robbie turned to Dee. “What you did was a breach. No one’s supposed to be alone with her except Jacob.”
“She was scared. I made a judgment call.”
“That wasn’t smart.”
It was all Olivia heard, as Cranston took her by the arm and pulled her into the house. Wagon wheel chandeliers hung from exposed beams. Men sat on big, clunky chairs and sofas constructed of oak and buttery leather. There were no women, at least initially, but just then, one came out of the kitchen with a tray of coffee mugs. She was one of the small group of women who had stood on the porch, apart from the men, last night. Wives? Housekeepers?
When Olivia appeared, everyone stopped talking. They watched as Cranston led her through the room. Olivia felt on display, evaluated. These guys were sizing her up. Going by their dour looks, Olivia guessed she fell short of their expectations.
They walked down a hallway and entered a long wood-paneled room. Cranston shut the heavy door, and it was suddenly very quiet, like shutting the door of a vault. Three old men sat behind a table at the end of the room: the man in the wheelchair, still wearing his watch cap; the hawk-faced man, whose scraggly white hair gave him a crypt-keeper appearance, his walker stowed in a corner; and sitting in the middle, Jacob.
Before each of the men sat a water glass. Two pitchers of ice water, lemon slices floating on top like small lily pads, anchored two corners of the table.
A fourth chair, to the left of the crypt-keeper, remained empty, although it had its own water glass.
Centered on the wall behind the old men hung a picture of Earth taken from deep space, an old photo from the Apollo program.
A gallery of portraits lined the other walls—three men enclosed in every frame. The most recent-looking picture was of the same men now sitting behind the table, only they were much younger, middle-aged, barely recognizable. In it, Jacob retained his beard, but it was black and trimmed, in the style of Ulysses S. Grant. The other portraits tracked back in time, color surrendering to black and white, regressing to daguerreotypes and down to pre-photographic eras. Some were done in oil, others were charcoal sketches. Near the end of the gallery three faces had been inscribed on a copper plate. But it was always three men, and they went back a long way.
A folding chair faced the three old men.
“Go ahead and sit.” Cranston dropped his hand on her shoulder and pushed her down.
What now, she wondered, defend my dissertation?
Jacob cleared his throat. “Would you like water? We’re waiting for—”
The door opened and somebody said, “Sorry.” Olivia turned. Her Aleppo stalker, Crazy Hair, entered the room and closed the door behind him. He hurried to the front, sparing Olivia a glance, and sat next to the crypt-keeper. Again, Olivia was struck by the resemblance between Crazy Hair and Emilio. Were they brothers? Jacob frowned at him, cleared his throat again, and spoke. “Now that we are all assembled, we will begin.”
“Wait a minute.” Olivia pushed Cranston’s hand off her shoulder. “I have some questions of my own. Who the hell are you people?”
The old men exchanged looks. The stalker pulled nervously at his lip.
“Don’t speak unless you are asked a direct question.” Cranston’s hand landed on her shoulder again, heavy and firm. His big belly bumped against her. Olivia tried to shrug the hand off, but Cranston dug his fingers in. He reeked of Old Spice. She glared at him. “You don’t have the right to do this. None of you.”
“We have every right,” the crypt-keeper said. “We have a duty.”
“You don’t have the right to kidnap me.”
Jacob sighed. “Miss Nikitas, we are not having a conversation. There are two possible outcomes of this questioning. One is very disfavorable to you. Please be quiet.”
Olivia stared at him but kept her mouth shut.
“Good. We will continue. I am Jacob. This”—he nodded to the man in the watch cap—“is Martin. And this”—nodding to the crypt-keeper—“is Andrew. My alternates. Our young friend sitting next to Andrew is Alvaro. The next in line.”
“That’s in dispute,” Andrew said.
“This isn’t the time,” Jacob said.
“Emilio should be here. He’s part of the argument.”
“This isn’t the time,” Jacob said. “Martin? Begin.”
Martin cleared his throat. It sounded like a garbage disposal clotted with gunk. He measured Olivia and asked, “What is the Parable of Two Cities?”
“I can speak now?” Olivia said.
Jacob inclined his head.
“Okay,” Olivia said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What two cities?”
Martin scowled. He dug his pinkie into his ear and screwed it back and forth, as if he were tightening something.
“Andrew?” Jacob said.
The crypt-keeper pursed his lips. His chin puckered like a skin bag cinched closed. “I don’t see the need to continue. She doesn’t know the parable.”
Olivia dropped her head, then looked up. “You at least have to tell me what we’re talking about.”
“What is the Parable of Two Cities?” Andrew repeated.
Olivia sighed. “I don’t know it.”
Jacob said, “It begins this way: ‘A man left his home in the shining city and followed a crooked path.’ What is the next sentence? Take your time.” He nodded at her encouragingly.
“Helping her isn’t allowed,” Andrew said.
Olivia rolled her eyes. “I don’t know it.”
“I think that settles the matter.” Andrew folded his liver-spotted hands under his chin. “Remove her, so we can discuss the order of transference. That’s the only real issue.”
Jacob lowered his eyes and nodded.
* * *
Outside, Dee sat on the porch rail, with the two young men from before standing on either side of her.
“Take her back.” Cranston released Olivia’s arm and retreated into the house.
Dee pushed off the rail. “I got this.”
The young men, both in khakis and polo shirts, looked doubtful.
“Seriously,” Dee said.
She escorted Olivia off the porch, between the parked vehicles, and across the yard. The young men followed at a short distance.
“What happened in there?” Dee asked.
“I don’t think I passed.”
“Those old guys can be hard to read. You probably did better than you think.”
“I didn’t.”
Dee glanced back at the men following, dropped her voice. “Tell me what happened.”
“They asked me to recite a parable I’d never heard of, and when I didn’t know it, they ended the meeting. At first I thought Jacob was in charge. But one of the other Elders, A
ndrew, he seemed to take over.”
“That isn’t good.”
“It didn’t seem like it, no.”
“They only asked you one question, to repeat the parable?”
“Yes.” Olivia stopped walking. “What are they going to do with me?”
“Keep walking.”
“Tell me what they’re going to do.”
“Problem?” one of the polo-shirted guys said.
“No problem.” Dee shoved Olivia, not hard. “Move,” she said under her breath. “I’m already in trouble.”
Olivia started walking again, taking the measured steps of a prisoner approaching the gallows. If they locked her in the shed again, she would be helpless. Right, she thought, as opposed to being helpless outside the shed.
“What’s going to happen to me?”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t think I believe you.”
They reached the shed. Dee produced her key.
“Help me,” Olivia said.
“They won’t hurt you,” Dee said, but wouldn’t look at her. She unlocked the door.
“Please. You know this is wrong.”
Dee pushed her through the doorway.
“Please,” Olivia said.
Dee looked troubled. “I can’t,” she said, and pulled the door shut. Olivia heard the bolt clack into place.
* * *
The day passed. No one brought her food or picked up the tray from earlier. In the Damascus house, when the separatists stopped emptying the chamber pot, it meant that they had decided to run away and let her go. Olivia doubted a similar disruption of services meant the same thing at Sanctuary. Above the skylight, gray overcast interrupted the sun.
A vehicle’s engine started, and the gate rattled open. Olivia dragged the chair across the floor and stood on it, nose pressed to the fanlight. Dee was back at her post. The silver Hyundai drove toward the trees, the gate rolling closed behind it. The Japanese contingent going home with Olivia’s blood?
Olivia waited for the racket of the closing gate to cease, then rapped her knuckles on the window, hard enough, she hoped, to be heard across the yard. Dee looked over but otherwise didn’t acknowledge her. She fiddled with something in the guard shack, then crossed to the house. Olivia rapped on the window and waved. Dee stopped with one foot on the porch and looked across the yard to Olivia’s shed. The moment stretched out. Dee made a downward pushing gesture—a be-quiet gesture—and continued into the house.
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