* * * *
Tom didn't allow himself a sigh of relief until later that evening, when he was in the lift car and on his way to Vermont with the auto-pilot on. The car's headlights cast hazy cones of illuminated falling rain into the darkness in front of him. Tom hated flying in the dark.
Father Washington had ensured him unencumbered passage through the restricted flight zone along the southern Vermont border. That alone would take a lot of time off his travel. He had a remote work screen set up on the lift car's console and was trying to set up a comm link to Leslie's Gun. When she'd been in Boston he was pretty sure he'd gotten a one-way message through to her. Now, he tried to hack a two-way path. It was theoretically possible. It wouldn't foil the scrambler she was obviously using, but he was still convinced he could reason with her.
If only we could talk without anyone's interference.
If he knew her at all, she was probably scared and close to turning back anyway. He was sure part of her wanted to be found by him, wanted to be saved again. She knew she couldn't survive on her own. Maybe he could tell her he would set up some way for her to have the baby.
Yes, that'll probably do the trick. But I'll have to go delicately—to convince her I still love her and I'm worried about her safety. If she doesn't believe those things first, she probably won't buy the baby thing. I have to take it slowly.
He thought about Jefferson and Meyer. If they'd been his enemy before Father Washington got involved, they were even more dangerous to him now. They'd still do everything in their power to abrogate their responsibility in all this to him. And with so much now out in the open with Washington, their actions would be more devious—and more aggressive. Tom remembered the look on Meyer's face when he left the counselor's office.
Tom was back on Operation Gentle Net, but now, at least for him, things wouldn't be so gentle. Tom disgraced both Meyer and Jefferson, and they wouldn't forget. He knew how they thought, too, and to them the only way to save face would be to destroy him. The stakes were raised now, and this made Security even more dangerous for Leslie. Because she was just a pawn, an embarrassing factor to control. Jefferson and Meyer both knew if they could make it look like Tom was failing, they'd be heroes and it wouldn't matter if Leslie lived or died, as long as the secrets surrounding her were safe. Red Hell, they might even be thinking they could still get promotions out of it in the end.
Jefferson had briefed Tom over his work screen earlier to bring him up to date on the investigation—he couldn't even bring himself to face him. Tom chuckled at that. It was a pleasure to get under their skin to such a degree.
The vague, fifty-mile radius they were able to extrapolate for location in spite of the scrambler had finally stopped moving and placed them roughly in the middle of the Adirondack Territory. Jefferson's operatives had been chasing the moving blur up through Maine all this time, and then into Canada, which had obviously been a waste of time. Tom could have told them this at the beginning.
As much as he'd been dreading the possibility of Leslie's father getting involved in her escape, Tom was now actually relying on it. He was the only man in Security familiar with Everett's old haunts in the mountains. For Jefferson and his men, those fifty miles or so of a blurred, vague location was nothing more than a blanket of forest and hills. To Tom, it suggested the guiding hand of Everett. Tom knew where his hideouts were. He was banking on the idea Leslie had been led to one of those places. If nothing else, it was an informed place to start.
The only other thing he had to worry about was what he would say to her when they stood face to face.
She'll listen to reason—if I can figure out what's reasonable.
And if no one else interferes.
13
The swollen river became visible just as Leslie stepped in a puddle. With cold seeping in over the top of her shoe, she continued along the path. Shaggy trees, their roots exposed along the banks, tilted over the water and dangled wooden fingers. The path led to a rotting dock with a boat, covered by a tarpaulin, moored against it. Roger hopped two feet down from the steep bank and slipped on the damp boards. Gaining his balance, he untied and pulled away the tarpaulin, splashing rainwater on his thighs. Leslie watched from the bank.
"It's full of fuel and ready to go,” he said. “And, so far, no sign of Security."
Leslie slipped down the muddy bank to the dock. A breeze crossed the river and blew clean air to her nostrils. “So far no Security."
"Only because I'm good at what I do,” Leslie heard from behind her. Startled, Roger straightened and stepped backward. Leslie grasped his arm to steady him. Then she let go and turned around, shaking with an odd mixture of anger, fear, and resignation. Tom stood in the path, ten yards beyond her. “I've been following you for the past ten minutes,” he said. “Really, Les, I taught you better than this.” He stood there looking casual, his hands hanging at his hips.
"What are we going to do now, Tom? Have a shootout?"
"That's not what I want, Les."
"Good. I'm going to get into the boat now.” She gestured with her thumb.
"Leslie. Just talk with me for a minute."
"What is there to say? It's already clear this has gone too far. There's no way I can go back to Washington."
"But there is, don't you see? All Father Washington wants is an end to this without any embarrassment. This can all be put behind us."
She shook her head, disbelieving. “And what about Roger here?"
"Saints have been known to wield the power of clemency in certain situations."
"Are you telling me I can be assured of the power to offer clemency to Roger?"
"Well, it's poss—” Tom stopped and squinted at Leslie. His voice grew louder. “What does this guy matter to you? He's nobody. You need to start thinking about yourself. I don't even get it."
"Then I guess there's not much more to say."
"Les, please don't.” His voice grew softer. He walked toward her. She watched him approach until he was close enough to jump on the dock. His thin hair was uncombed. He looked so pallid, and his eyes were red within their hollowed sockets. For a moment, Leslie worried for him.
"You look like Hell, Tom."
"You aren't exactly looking your best either, Leslie. Listen. The fact I'm here alone shows I can still protect you, at least to some degree. Washington felt I could convince you to come home. Baby, this can be all over within twenty-four hours. All you have to do is take my hand.” He reached out to her. “I promised them I could get you safely home. That's what's right. That's what's best."
"Best for whom? Don't hold me accountable for your mistaken promises to them.” Leslie surprised herself with the response. And, with its utterance, any fear she'd felt evaporated away—that surprised her even more. She watched his face go blank. The same vacant stare that always irritated her so much. Now she stared coolly, unselfconsciously, back. He broke the gaze first.
"Everything's on the line here. Don't you understand that? I think I've got things squared away, so they don't do anything stupid. But the situation can only be allowed to go so far.” He swatted the air in a frustrated gesture. Leslie felt sorry for him.
"How could I trust you, Tom? Even if I wanted to go back."
"I just want what's best for you!"
Behind her, Roger snorted. She shook her head very slowly, deliberately. “I'm sorry, Tom. I don't believe you know what's best for me any more."
Through his teeth, he said, “Les. I have to bring you in. I'm begging you, all right? Is that what you want? Come back with me. If not for your own sake then for me. Les, I'm in a lot of trouble."
"I'm sorry."
Tom sucked in a long breath and looked up at the sky. His whole body had gone rigid, and she realized how much he fought himself to make his next move. When he looked at her again he reached into his jacket and pulled out his gun. She mirrored the motion with her own.
"And so, like well-trained guards, we fully have each other's attention,”
she said.
He waved the weapon casually, as if it were more a form of emphasis for his words than anything else. “What about the baby, Les?"
Leslie let Gun drop slowly against her hip. “What about it?"
"I never did right by you,” he said. “I tried. Believe me, I tried. I'm sorry, too, Leslie. But you have to come home. If the only way to get you to come with me is to figure out a way for you to have the kid, then we'll have to work it out somehow."
The flesh of Leslie's back turned hot and needles pricked her spine. Her head went suddenly numb. She gasped as she tried to talk. “Wha ... what are you saying? That y-you'll help m—"
Her limbs rippled out like an expanding helium balloon. Then the balloon was torn by a hot iron rod sliding up her back, her neck, and spearing her skull. Immediate fear strangled her. She was impaled.
Tom was frowning. She could barely hear him through the ringing. “Les, what's the matter—what's wrong?” Through her pain she realized something was dawning on him. His expression splintered into confusion, then the pieces sharpened into diffused panic. He bellowed, throwing up both his hands. “Jefferson! Meyer! Don't do this! Don't you understand! You fucking bastards. Father Washington gave me this job. Me!” His fists trembled as he whirled and waved the gun at the woods around him, a futile gesture. Leslie's body became less than an Agent, compelled to climb off the dock and join Tom. She fought it—her will one enraged point of light. She gritted her teeth and tried to make fists against the strain in her muscles to climb the bank.
No. No. I will. I. Will. Stay here.
It was useless. A foot slipped forward. Then the other. Remembering Gun, Leslie fought to raise her weapon—and her arm turned to lead. The comforting imagined motion of the head mem had swollen into a turbulent swirl, a storm of vertigo and nausea. She smelled lemons and her vision blurred. She was spinning. Then all her muscles, all her tendons, urged her to half-turn to Roger and ... aim.
Tom stopped yelling and bent to spring on to the dock. Leslie chewed her tongue until the pain seared all through her. She fought, but her body was inexorable. The spinning, the blurring, the lemon smell, all grew unbearable. Tom jumped at her. Then, for a brief moment, the force controlling her stopped like an unexpected silence. All the strength with which she had been fighting released, and spun her wildly, and she squeezed Gun's trigger. The shot ripped off Tom's arm at the elbow and spun him to the side. His forearm turned in the air behind him to bounce once on the path as his chest and leg slammed into the dock. Then he slid into the water.
The splash reached to Leslie's waist. Then vertigo and spinning returned in an overwhelming rush. She went rigid, convulsed, lost her balance on the shaking boards. One elbow hit the bank. Gun slid into the river. Then her face was in the mud and she couldn't breathe. Everything disappeared in a bright explosion. And the convulsions started.
* * * *
When her eyes opened, she was lying in the boat. She smelled bitter vomit; it burned the back of her throat. Roger had put cushions under her between the steel seats. He steered from the back seat as the engine hummed. Her vision clouded as she looked up at him, fragmenting into pieces of electric pulsing black. Her crotch was slick with ... something. Warm oil. Her stomach was shaking, cramping.
He saw her wake up. “Are you okay?” he said. “I think you had a seizure. A pretty bad one.” He looked scared.
"Roger,” she whispered. “I think I'm bleeding."
"You're what?"
She watched his expression change as his gaze rested between her legs. He lurched over her and undid her pants, yanking them down off her buttocks and below her knees. “Oh sweet Washington,” he said. The smell rose to Leslie—sweet, rancid, metallic, salty—and when she looked down there was all the dark blood and the huge clot curling across her twitching inner thigh. Her eyes burned.
Save it. Save it.
She squirmed to her hands and knees. The pants, still tangling her calves, tripped her. She landed on her side. Roger grabbed her hip, steadied her. “Take it easy,” he said. “Come on, take it easy."
She gasped, gulped at the gelling air around her. Her abdomen fisted, her body strained, and she opened, and opened, and life burst from her, oily, and she could see to the other side, the side that was death, a side she recognized without question. She clutched at Roger, dug his wrist, clawed his shoulder, as the world grew dull and soft.
Save my baby, she tried to say. My baby. Her lungs were made of lead. Roger still stood over her, or did she imagine him?
"It's over, Leslie, it's okay."
"It's not over.” She gasped. “You get it. You pick it up and save it."
"It's gone,” he whispered.
"You can save the tissue. It can be cloned. You save my baby.” Please, help me Roger. She wasn't sure if she actually spoke any more. I don't care what happens to me, if Washington flays my dark flesh. Just save my baby.
"Yes, Leslie, all right."
She barely heard him through the thickened air. She couldn't be sure if he was really speaking, or if she only imagined his words: ‘I'll save it for you if I can ... I can put it in the cooler—maybe we ... ‘ His voice had gone distant, had changed. It was Tommy whispering in her ear. It'll be all right, Les. We'll keep it in the cooler.
Then it was over again, because again she lost consciousness.
She awakened briefly on an examination table, surrounded by men wearing surgical masks. Her legs thrashed weakly. She sobbed once and then tried to call out for Tommy Russell. The inside of her throat felt thick and dry. No words came out, only another sob. The ache inside her was hot, and she was hollow, bloodless. She was empty. She was nothing. Something had been taken away from her. And a vague sense trembled through her she was about to lose something else. One of the men reached down toward her. His surgical gloves were cool and dry against her forehead. A mask smothered her. She was suffocating. She tried to cry out for Russell again, but this time it didn't bother her throat because it was only in her head.
Anesthesia was a blessing.
* * * *
On Channel 13-39 the chimp story continues.
"We have officially reprimanded the IEPA,” a stern-looking federal court spokesman says, “for its hasty allegations the KKK had anything at all to do with the monkey killings."
"The Academic Committee appointed to analyze the products of the new plot-generating program in California,” the anchorman sneers, “reported today that the work, while derivative of hundreds of older books, was a landmark achievement toward demonstrating the obsolescence of the written word."
A White House spokesman announces Terrorist Readiness Alert Status has risen again to Arrogant Disdain, and Dr. Bankley, Ph.D., appears to give a brief illuminating history of the system. “In the early days,” he drones, “a rather crude system was set up using a spectrum of colors to denote various levels of alertness. Obviously this system was a bit silly, and doomed to be discarded. We later struck on the practice of using various forms and levels of emotion to denote various intensities of threat. This was a superior practice for quite apparent reasons. Using the full spectrum of human emotions serves as a much more subtle and sensitive means by which to describe the nature of a threat, and the nature of our nation's appropriate response to it."
Another White House spokesman stares at the vision eye, his own eyes moist and red. “We've just heard the newly appointed Saint Leslie of Security is missing in action. I repeat, Saint Leslie of Security is missing in action after a brief shootout in the occupied Adirondack Territory. Sources have reported Saint Leslie was on a covert mission conducted by Security against dangerous Atheists cells in the area. When the shooting began, she was pursuing her former captors, Atheist members of the Sons of Man.” He pauses, his upper lip trembling. “Once again, the unselfishness of Saint Leslie leaves us all in awe. This heroic woman, who demonstrated in life such strength of will and honor, has quite probably made the ultimate sacrifice for her country."
The movie that follows has something to do with Christ....
Part III:
Rebirth
"You know I could run for governor but I'm basically a media creation. I've never done anything."
—George W. Bush (as quoted by J. H. Hatfield in Fortunate Son: George W. Bush and the Making of an American President)
"Instead of the most enlightened people, I fear we Americans shall soon have the character of the silliest people under Heaven."
—John Adams, Old Family Letters: Copied from the Originals for Alexander Biddle
14
Her past returns to her in overwhelming dreams; it is exactly the opposite of a flood. Before, when the sharp rocks of memory jutted through to the surface, the soft motion of her head mem provided a tide that rose up and submerged them once again. But now the tide has fallen. The shore bed is exposed. She aches for the flood of the tide to gently wash off the panic of recognition no longer quickly concealed, no longer blurred into a vague sense of a found image fading away once more. Images assail her, disjointed at first because she fights against them.
The strongest, most ubiquitous of all is her father's smell, cinnamon and musk, aftershave splashed on so heavily to mask the underlying rotting smell of alcohol. It's a constant, goes back as far as her memory is exposed. It terrifies her. She feels closed in by the smell, unable to breathe, unable to move or escape, utterly powerless, utterly alone. She remembers the first time it occurred to her there might be something wrong with the way her father treated her. They were at the beach—Potash Bay, a curving ridge of some sand, but mostly sharp stones and pebbles along an edge of Lake Champlain, half-shaded by arms of maple, oak, and birch. Beyond the bay the lake looks amazingly fat to her—she's nine years old and has never seen the ocean.
A cold wind pushes off the water as she sits on a rounded stone three times her size, hard and warm against her buttocks. Waves shush against the shore line, leaving their debris of driftwood, empty clamshells, occasional amber and green bottles, and foam exactly the color of what develops on the edge of a root beer ice cream float.
The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security Page 15