by Laura Bynum
Lazarus rises up on his old spine. "You have our attention, Elsbeth."
"What we're wanting to know is this. How do you expect us to march into battle alongside a man who's spent well over a decade as a Blue Coat? How do we know he hasn't been compromised? It's strange, don't you think, him pulling Jingo Skinner off Ben during a punitive without reprimand from Internal Affairs--"
"It's just happened," Lazarus interrupts.
But Elsbeth doesn't pause. "And now he's gotten himself wounded. He was sent to Antioch General this morning, which means they've probably already begun an investigation. God knows what he'll have to tell them."
"Are we judging our members for being hurt now?" Lazarus demands. "What must you feel about Ben?"
"You know what I'm saying. Gage was clumsy and now we're more at risk than ever."
Lazarus is on a slow boil, trying not to speak too quickly. "We're not doing this now," he says.
"You've at least thought of it, haven't you? Considered the idea that maybe he's had to make a deal with the Confederation to keep himself alive?"
Solemn, Lazarus nods. "Of course we have. What I'm asking you to consider is John's loyalty. His sixteen years served as a member of this resistance, despite huge risk to himself."
Elsbeth doesn't want to hear such logic and looks at me. "Harper, I'd like to ask you one question."
"Okay."
"This question pertains to finding the main redactor. You're to find the master prior to our war effort in order to keep millions of people from dying when they try to follow our lead and speak Red Listed words. Yes?"
"Elsbeth," Lazarus says in a low voice. "If you have a legitimate question, I suggest you ask it."
The woman steps around the table and cocks her head my way. "Might this effort be affected by feelings you're harboring for John Gage? We all saw the way you reacted when he was shot."
The blood rushes into my cheeks and Ezra sees it. She laughs a little too loud, drawing Elsbeth's attention away from my burning face.
"Do we really have time for this?" Ezra asks, her eyes on Lazarus. "I've got about a thousand better things to do--"
Elsbeth isn't deterred. She keeps her eyes on mine while interrupting Ezra. "Wouldn't a strong emotional attachment to the man in charge of shutting down the main redactor put this effort at risk? If it was my husband who stood to be killed if I couldn't produce its identity, I can guarantee you it would never happen. The pressure would absolutely kill any abilities I might have had."
Elsbeth is referring to my private conversation with Lilly. I want to tell the council that not only are Elsbeth's claims about my feelings for John false, they're gleaned from eavesdropping. I'm almost out of my seat to do so when the reality of this situation hits me. I can't. Lazarus would know better. He'd recognize the truth of Elsbeth's allegations by my red cheeks and dry lips. In how low my voice gets when John's name is on my tongue. And then Lazarus would be responsible not just for this truth, but for the next so doggedly following it--that these newfound feelings just might get in the way. Ruin everything.
The room has gone quiet. Everyone is looking at me, waiting for me to respond. For the second time this afternoon, Ezra comes to the rescue with a nod at Elsbeth's husband, Charles. "Sounds like you'd better watch your own ass on the field, Chuck. Old Elsbeth here won't have it covered."
Elsbeth ignores Ezra. "Harper?" she prompts.
I answer with my eyes on our leader. "Love only helps, if that's what you're asking."
Lazarus gives me a coy smile and I realize that he knows anyway.
"I don't think that is what I'm asking," Elsbeth growls, embarrassment turning her pink. She was looking for an easy argument with which to oust John.
"John Gage is not a threat to this mission," I say simply.
"John Gage is a Blue Coat. John Gage rapes and murders for a living--"
"John Gage is not a threat to this mission!" I repeat, surprised at the force in my voice.
Elsbeth is enraged. "Fine. Then let's talk about Ezra."
Composure slips past Lazarus, who bangs a finger against the table. "Ezra is the third highest ranking officer at this facility. If you have something to say, Elsbeth, say it to Lieutenant James!"
Elsbeth looks over to where Ezra's smoking. She's got her legs splayed out, giving Elsbeth a little peekaboo up her short skirt.
"I'm sorry, Ezra, but I don't feel comfortable bringing you into this war either, much less our new government." The woman turns her frown back on Lazarus. "And I am not alone in this. There are more than a few of us who feel this way."
"Why?" Lazarus asks.
Elsbeth squares her shoulders. "Her background. Her lack of experience."
"Who among us has any experience in the roles we've had to assume? None! And let's not discuss the Lieutenant's background as if it was something seedy and not the job we've asked her to do," Lazarus growls. "I welcome all questions rooted in honest concern, but not those stemming from prejudice. Is there any evidence you can bring before this council to validate these concerns?"
Elsbeth takes a heavy breath and says solemnly, almost sadly, "Only the evidence Ezra affords us every day through the things she does. And the people with whom she does them." She sits back down. Charles leans in to rub her shoulder.
Head shaking, Lazarus gets up from his seat. "You enjoy the protection these people provide but you don't want to acknowledge the enormous risks they take on your behalf, is that what I'm hearing? Would any one of you have the guts and the heart to do the unimaginable things we've required of both Ezra and John? Do you know what they give up on a daily basis to protect us?" He points at Elsbeth with a crooked finger. "What are you asking? That we stone the prostitute and string up the government assassin? Let's take a vote! All in favor of doing away with these two social and political liabilities, raise your hands!" He holds up a thick palm, inviting others to join him.
No one moves.
"You're all very lucky to be where you are," Lazarus says, both his voices thick. "God willing, there won't be much actual fighting here in the wastelands. But in the capital, in every large city in this country, thousands of your compatriots will be giving their lives for this cause!" Lazarus nods at our humbled faces. "We will not begin a new society with this kind of prejudice! And toward our own, for God's sake!" he shouts, wiping the perspiration from his brow. "Now, is there anything else before we finish this meeting? Good. Meeting adjourned."
I wait for the council members to leave before stepping into the hallway. Ezra follows. She tells me in a stream of quick, mumbled words that John will be all right. He's gone up top to have his wound treated and documented. To have Jingo's bullet extracted and cataloged. He'll be back in his car, handling backup duties by dinner, then the more physical ones within a week.
"Where'd you get this information?" I have to yell after Ezra, who's on a march toward the stairs. "I thought Jingo wasn't talking!"
She calls back over a shoulder, thick legs pumping on razor-thin heels. "Skinner's not my only client."
I am not one of the group standing like stones on the prairie. They go out in the early evening, when the sun is low on the horizon and a person has to squint against the sideways light. They gather around the hole someone dug under cover of night and pay homage to Ben Dean. For most, it's the first time spent aboveground in months. Just a few moments out of doors, not one of which they're permitted to enjoy. Then back inside they'll go, the warm sun a chafe on their faces. A rebuff.
While Lazarus and the others are tending to our fallen brother, I'm marching across the front lawn toward Lilly's car. Dressed in my cleaned-up blouse and one of Lilly's old skirts that's gray and smells of mothballs. It would be dull if it weren't so tight. But it's too short, reveals me almost entirely when I sit.
I'll be up top for the next few hours. What I should be feeling is ecstasy. But I'm terrified.
I'm to follow the map Lilly's drawn, memorizing the way as I go. At my destination, I'm to g
et rid of this guide, leaving no evidence that could trace me back to the bunker. I tap my breast pocket. The lump there is strangely soothing. It's my kill pill. Just in case.
After ninety miles of highway, the rocked country road I'm looking for appears. It curves behind a thicket of trees, then turns up a grassy hill heavily grooved by combine wheels. I burn the map, then dig a hole in the earth and tuck the black remains inside. Relinquishing this leaves a pit in my stomach. I don't know if I've memorized all the turns and exits correctly. It could be a burial of my sure way home.
I get back in the car and wait. A few minutes later, I hear the soft sound of another vehicle on damp weeds. It's a sedan, dark blue. I keep my right hand on the manual shift and my left foot on the clutch. If I need to run, my car's nose is pointed toward the road.
The car is parked and a man gets out. He's tall and wide, blots out the last of the day's sun. "Hey." He taps four times on my window. The way he's supposed to.
My hand shakes. It slips off the button as I lower the glass.
The man leans down so I can see his face. He's mid-forties, has dark blue eyes surrounded by a grid of lines from too much laughing. It would be a giveaway if it weren't for his skin mottled from too much drink and tobacco, and the trademark scars on his face. A trio of deep scratches one of his victims etched into his right cheek.
"When did Jefferson die?" he asks.
I swallow loudly. "July the fourth."
"Harper Adams, the name's Fletcher." He offers me a hand. I slide mine through the window and we shake. "I was hoping to tell you this trip was all for naught, but Skinner's not talking. Not to anyone. Now hold out your wrists. We have to make it look real."
I climb out and Fletcher snaps on the metal cuffs, then leads me to the back of his squad car. He tells me I'll be taken in through the lobby, head down, wrists cuffed.
"One of the most wanted women in the Confederation, right under their noses." He laughs.
I'm seated in the back of his squad. As soon as the door closes, the locks follow. This Blue Coat crawls behind the wheel and looks at me through the rearview mirror. He doesn't see me sweating through my blouse. About to puke all over his backseat.
"It's the only way to get you in," he says. "Don't say a word, do what I tell you, and you'll be fine."
"Uh-huh." I try to swallow but have no spit.
"Once we're through processing, it's all smooth sailing. We'll watch the debriefing from a remote monitoring station, then I'll take you out the rear exit." Fletcher puts the squad in gear and drives us away from Lilly's car. "It's okay, Harper. You're supposed to look scared."
The bullet-proof glass that separates us gives me a good look at the back of his neck and another set of scars. Three more scratches, horizontal beneath the hairline. "What if we get stopped on the way out?"
Fletcher turns the rearview mirror so I can better see his face. "Then we'll have to pretend you're with me, which wouldn't be unusual. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Good."
The next turn puts us on a road that has yellow stripes down its middle and tall streetlights along its side. They're just now starting to flicker. The sun I've missed so much is already setting.
"It's okay, Harper," Fletcher says. "People think what they're told to think. As far as they know, you're a hooker busted on an All Equals charge."
I look out the window. I'm terrified by the lights of a medium-size city coming into view. We're out in the thick of a six-lane road, the traffic coming over us like a wave. A tear slips down my face but my hands aren't free to wipe it away.
Fletcher sees. "I'm on your side, Harper. Can't you do your thing? Check out my colors or energy or whatever you call it. See for yourself."
I shrug. Laugh lightly, for his benefit. I don't tell him that, as has been my problem with John and, for good or for ill, it doesn't work like that. I can't so quickly get past the color of his suit.
I keep my head down as instructed. Take the steps carefully, Fletcher's hand on my back. Inside the foyer, other Blue Coats approach. I watch their shoes as they discuss my case, the points of their toes darting around mine like fish. They whisper awful things in my ear. Some call me whore, half in jest, whole in earnest. They pinch me. Reach across Fletcher to grab at my breasts while talking about their days. Who they've brought in. What their wives are making for dinner.
We skip the manual scans. Instead, I'm patted down vigorously by a man with bunions large enough to bend the leather of his sandals around them. He enjoys the intimacy that doesn't cost him any credits. Hums in my ear as his hands move. Then it's all high heels and polished wing tips as we walk the wide sweep of a laminate breezeway that leads to the interrogation rooms.
Fletcher opens a door near the hall's end and removes the cuffs from my wrists. "Lazarus tells me you've been in one of these before."
It's just like the office from which Mr. Weigland and I watched Lucille. Fletcher turns on the panel's instruments and the fuzzed window clears. Jingo and another man are already sitting in the far room. The interrogator is a small, thin man with prematurely gray hair. He's splayed out. Smiling and making jokes. Jingo looks pensive. Arms crossed, legs bouncing beneath the table.
"The interrogator's with us," Fletcher tells me. He taps against the glass and the man's gray head pivots. "He'll give us time if we need it."
The interrogator smiles at us from his casual seat. Legs up on the table, heels overlapping. He unravels his arms and flips a switch on the wall. "We good to go?"
Fletcher turns to me. "You ready?"
Here is Fletcher, waiting on me. And Jingo Skinner, from the other room. "Yeah."
Fletcher presses the intercom button. Tells the interrogator to start when he's ready, then turns to me, nodding at the bank of controls. "Move the cameras anywhere you like."
I put up three images. Close-ups of Jingo's head, hands, and feet.
In the other room, the interrogating Blue Coat scoots closer to Skinner. He opens two packets of sugar and taps them into a Styrofoam cup. "Officer Skinner, yesterday morning you were presented with an unregistered vehicle on Route 50 outside Bond. Is that correct?"
Jingo smiles into camera one. "Yes, sir." He likes talking about this. It relaxes him.
I settle in. Focus.
The interrogator is a naturally gregarious man and his sparkling cloud bank of light blue is all over the room. Jingo's tentative. He wears his aura closer to the body, like a suit made of burgundy-colored cotton candy.
"You called regulation numbers on a suspected member of the resistance named Benjamin Dean, is this correct?"
Skinner flares with the memory, producing sparks of red. "Yes, sir."
"Were you able to question Mr. Dean?"
"Briefly. Until Officer Gage showed up."
"Did you confirm a relationship between Ben Dean and the resistance?"
"Yes."
"Can you elaborate, please?"
Jingo shrugs. "He had a kill pill on him."
"On him or in his mouth?"
"On him. In a pouch in his right front trouser pocket. I threw it out, not that he was likely to take it."
"So he hadn't attempted to abort his run?"
"Nope."
Lazarus told Mary that Ben's pill had been lost in the melee before he could remove himself from the equation. I won't tell her anything different.
"What did you discover about this resistance?"
A mist of orange-brown floats up from Skinner's tightly reigned colors. It's the one I was hoping for, the hue of regret.
"It's not far, I can tell you that."
"And you know that how?"
"There was less than a quarter tank of gas in his car. And the lab found trace amounts of local soil embedded in the tread of his tires."
"He was driving through. Wouldn't that stand to reason?"
"Could, I guess."
"Did Mr. Dean tell you anything about the resistance?"
Jingo's right foot beg
ins to tap. "No." His suit of energy expands. Bleeds into the interrogator's, who retreats to a corner of the room.
"Did Mr. Dean tell you what his purpose was or where he was going?"
"No."
"Do you have any idea where this local chapter of the resistance might be located?" The man is easy with his questions. His affiliation with our side completely opaque.
Jingo runs a hand through his hair. "He was on a fast clip toward Bond when I pulled him over, about four miles up from the interrogation site. If he was a runner, he was definitely on his way to the pickup and not heading home. There was nothing in that car. I'd say he was coming from Antioch. It would match the gas usage."
"So Antioch might be our target."
Skinner's face doesn't move but his colors spark, the energetic equivalent of a smile. "That's what I'm thinking."
Fletcher leans over, grinning in admiration. "God bless Ben. As soon as he knew Skinner had him, he dumped his goods. We found some of it alongside the highway. Thank God it was a medical run and just a few bags he could pitch into the culvert. If he'd been out for food, they'd have had everything between here and Bond dug up by now."
In the other room, our man retrieves a manila folder from the table. "Can you tell us what happened? Starting with the time you came upon Mr. Dean."
Jingo nods at the file in the man's hands. "It's just like my report says. I got a call from a Service Manager out at the Banger Petroleum Station. The suspect was able to enunciate one of the new Red Listed words without event, then fled when the Service Manager attempted to keep him in custody until I could get there."
"How did you intercept Mr. Dean?" the interrogator asks.
"Shot out one of his tires. Then followed until he lost control of his vehicle and put it in a ditch."
"Was the suspect hurt when you retrieved him from the vehicle?"
"He had a pretty good gash on his head. That's about it."
"So he was lucid?"
Jingo smiles. "Oh, yeah."
"Where did you take him for the interrogation?"
A shrug. "There's a shed the city keeps for vehicles." He keeps this response brief.
"And what happened at this interrogation?"