by Simone Pond
“Oh, we’re going back. I’m just thinking.”
Roman grabs Harper’s wrist to keep her in place. “I already told Kalli, it’s not a good idea. Achilles will have men on close watch, and you’re unarmed.”
“I have guns.”
“Even if you get through his men, I doubt Achilles will still be at the house. I told Kalli most likely he’ll take them to another location to get information out of them.”
“You mean to torture them, right? Then kill them.”
Roman nods.
Harper starts pacing around again, mumbling to herself, as her anger reaches gargantuan heights, upstaging her ladylike demeanor. Lots of cursing and stomping. Finally, she stops and stares off into the trees. I wait in silence with Roman, neither of us interested in interrupting her thoughts.
“This whole thing’s my fault,” I whisper to Roman. “I got to the gazebo too late. Now Noah’s involved. He’s not even a Border. I should’ve gone back for him instead of running away like a coward.”
“There was no sense in you going back and getting captured too. You did the right thing,” Roman says.
After another five or so minutes, Harper walks over to us. “He’s right. They won’t be at the house. But you know where they will be, don’t you?” She looks at Roman, ire glinting in her eyes.
He remains quiet as he contemplates.
“I know of a few places, but it’s not safe,” Roman says.
“I don’t care if it’s safe or not. We have to get to Johnson!” Harper shouts.
“Throwing a fit won’t help,” he tells her.
Before she spits back, I gently take Harper’s hands into mine. “I’m just as angry as you are, but we need to stay calm and come up with a solid plan.”
She dips her head to collect herself, and after a few deep breaths, she starts to resemble the sophisticated lady I first met. “Let’s get back to the house, discuss a plan with Leo and gear up. But first, can you give us any help on possible locations?” she asks Roman.
“For now, I suggest starting with Bonaventure Cemetery. And there’s a location over the bridge. Leo knows about it.”
Harper gives Roman a sturdy nod, then looks at me. “Okay, we should get going. You really need to get out of that mess.” Harper starts to climb into the truck, but stops short. “What are you doing?”
“Thought you’d want some assistance,” Roman explains.
Harper shakes her head in vehement opposition. “Absolutely not. We can’t bring our informant back to the safe house. You’d be surprised how much information a person dispels when their fingernails are being ripped off.”
“Harper! You’re being entirely too harsh. Roman’s been incredibly helpful. We might need him.”
But Roman shuts the door and backs away. “She’s right, Kalli. It’s not about trust. It’s about information. And the less I have, the better.”
I can’t stop myself from reaching out to hug him. “Thank you, for everything.”
“Be safe,” he says, kissing my hand.
Harper waits until he disappears into the trees before she starts the truck.
“What was that about?”
“What? Roman? I’m grateful he helped me find you.”
“I’m talking about kissing your hand.”
“Isn’t that what gentlemen do?” I don’t know why I sound defensive.
Harper gives me a knowing smirk, which I ignore, and drives down the fire, leaving a trail of dust. As we speed away from the mansion, I turn to watch the glimmering lights fade until there’s nothing but a dot on the inky horizon. As we’re driving, she jumps from one subject to the next. I know she’s nervous about Johnson, though she doesn’t admit it. Her endless prattle is keeping me from worrying about Noah. Or thinking about the loss of my brother. I open my purse to take out the deck of cards I stole from Achilles, but instead I notice Noah’s pocket watch. I forgot to surprise him at the party.
Harper looks over at me fiddling with the pocket watch in typical Noah fashion. “What’s that?”
“Noah’s pocket watch. It was damaged in the river, but I had George fix it. It was going to be a surprise, but I totally forgot to give it to him.”
“I knew you liked him. Johnson owes me two pieces of silver.”
My face heats up. “It’s not like that. We’ve been through a lot together these last few days.”
“Mm, hmm.”
“We’re not even friends … we’re just traveling together. That’s all. And he’s been really helpful. Got me a passport. Got me across the river. He’s made a couple of bad decisions—especially about the train—but overall he’s been a solid traveling companion …”
“You like him.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“But we can fix your DOD.”
“It’s not that. It’s … he’s a Long-Timer. I’m a Short-Timer. It’ll never work. Plus, he doesn’t like me like that. He’d never like me like that.”
“Once upon a time, Johnson was a Long-Timer, and I was a Short-Timer. And we worked out just fine.” She releases a soft sigh, the memory still fresh on her heart.
“I had you pegged for a Long-Timer.”
She laughs. “I was as Low-Bottom as they come. Addicted to drugs beyond belief. Johnson found me during one of his speakeasy raids. Anything’s possible, Kalli.”
Her story is meant to inspire hope, but it leaves my throat as dry as a gulch. If we don’t get to Johnson in time, I won’t be able to live with myself. I cling to Noah’s pocket watch and stare at the passing trees.
Harper nudges my arm with her elbow, getting my attention. “You should probably know something.”
“What?”
“The truth.”
“You mean in addition to finding out my brother is working for the people who killed our mother, and that he heads up the DOD program?”
“I’m sorry about that. We tried to warn you. I guess you had to see for yourself.”
“I feel like a naive idiot.”
“You’re not. It’s not your fault that everything is built on a system of lies.”
“I’m well familiar with the unfair hand dealt to the less-promising resources.” I say, holding up my wrist.
“This isn’t only about managing human resources or doling out DODs. It goes deeper.”
“I’m listening.”
“After the Border War, the Technocrats originally created the SOB to manage all of our resources—human and otherwise. In the beginning, everything was equal. But then a select group of people devised a strategy to bring in their own source of income. They quickly rose to power and began bribing the Technocrats, swaying them in their favor. The DOD algorithms were adjusted. That created a chasm in the balance and a divide in the social structure.”
Harper pauses and I interject. “Yeah, it’s no secret the Long-Timers provide financial support to the system, and the Short-Timers are slaves to it.”
“Aren’t you curious how the Long-Timers are able to provide financial support?”
I give a noncommittal shrug.
“The Low-Bottoms,” she says contemptuously.
Laughter spills from me. “Unless you consider getting high a commodity, Low-Bottoms don’t contribute anything.”
“Oh, but they do. Those speakeasies bring in more income than any other resource. People pay to get into the speakeasies, right? And they pay to buy drugs. The Technocrats meticulously manage this. The whole thing—the entire System of Balance—is being financed by the drug trade.”
My smile fades and I don’t feel so good. It makes sense. The speakeasies couldn’t exist under the watchful eye of the Technocrats, unless they were allowing it.
Harper continues. “Low-Bottoms are more profitable than Short-Timers. That’s why they keep moving more people into the system.”
“Move people into the system?”
“Throughout the southern grids, there are mercenaries influencing people—those prone to addiction—and they funnel them into the s
peakeasies. Once they’re hooked and they become a steady source of income. And when a Low-Bottom becomes a risk, the Technocrats send in the flies. New people fill their spot, continuing the vicious cycle.” Harper stops talking and lets me sit with this overwhelming and disgusting reality. It’s even worse than I thought.
“Why does it have to be like this if it was working in the beginning?”
“Greed. Power. Like every generation before us, there’s always an upper class. They will stop at nothing to stay on top and keep others down. The SOB is a murdering machine. The only way to fix this broken system is to expose the drug trade and remove the DOD program. And that’s why they hate the resistance—they know we’re capable of it.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I murmur.
“Not much to say.”
The rest of the drive I listen to the hum of the truck’s engine, keeping my face turned toward the window so Harper can’t see my tears. I cry over the loss of my brother’s innocence. Over the corrupt system we’re forced to endure. And over my inability to do anything about it.
*
At the safe house, I change into some of Harper’s clothes and meet her and Leo in the library. I’m wearing Noah’s jacket, which has become my shield of protection.
“Per Roman’s suggestion, Kalli and I are going to Bonaventure Cemetery to scope out the empty administrative building.”
Leo points to a location on the map spread out on his desk. “You said he mentioned the bridge. He’s talking about Hutchinson Island. There’s a warehouse they use.”
“Good to know my brother has multiple locations where he likes to torture and murder his victims,” I grumble.
Leo gives me a two-way radio. “Keep it turned on at all times. If I don’t hear from you every fifteen minutes, I’ll know something went down and come for you.”
As we’re walking outside, he hands Harper a gun, which she tucks into her waistband. I’m glad he doesn’t entrust me with one, since I have no idea how to shoot or even hold the thing.
“If they’re not at either of these locations, we’ll contact Roman and get some additional locations,” Harper says.
Leo nods and swings a rifle over his muscular shoulder. He straddles his motorcycle and rambles off through the tunnel of oak trees, smoke billowing in his wake. Harper and I climb into the truck, not speaking along the drive.
We arrive at Bonaventure Cemetery, and Harper parks close to a crumbling mausoleum. We weave our way through the overgrown grass and gnarly trees, passing by various shaped headstones. Most of the slabs of concrete are moss-covered or wrapped in ivy, vines and branches clinging around them like bony arms. Though I’m no stranger to cemeteries—visiting my mother’s grave every week—something about this eerie lot doesn’t sit right. The dates of death go back centuries, long before the Border War.
Something crunches behind me, and I clutch Harper’s arm. “Someone’s following us.”
“It’s just critters,” she whispers, then she points to a building and makes some gestures that I don’t understand. Irritated she pulls me close and says, “You take the back room. I’ll go upstairs.”
That’s where the worst things happen. “The back?”
“Fine, I’ll take the back. You go upstairs. If anyone is up there, come get me first. Don’t play the hero.”
“Let me reassure you, I wasn’t planning on it.”
“Look for anything out of the ordinary.”
“Like what?”
She rolls her eyes. “Anything.”
We walk into the building. It’s dark, but the moonlight guides me along. I creep up the rickety wooden stairs and tiptoe down a narrow hall, pausing every time the floorboards creak. At the end of the hall, I wait in the shadows, listening for voices. The only noise is my heart battering against my ribcage. The place is empty. I start looking around for anything out of the ordinary as Harper instructed.
In the back corner sits a round table with chairs that’s set up like a poker game for ghosts. I poke around, looking for anything. Under the table, I spot a playing card. I know it belongs to my brother because of the custom design with the sword piercing a black heart over a red background, which tells me he’s been here. I pick up the card for a closer look. Along the edges are fingerprints embossed in dried blood. I totter back a few feet, sickened by the sight. Hearing about your brother torturing people is one thing, but seeing proof is another. I picture him beating and mutilating people to get information. I have to sit down to keep from retching. He’s not just working for monsters, he is a monster.
While I’m sitting at the table, I have a flashback of Achilles shuffling a deck of cards in the library earlier tonight before our reunion went awry. I remember the tray of poker chips on the coffee table. Since poker has always been his favorite pastime, I’d say there’s a high probability he was preparing for a game. What if he never left the house? I can picture him taking breaks in between hands to torture Noah, Johnson and George. I slip the card into my pocket and head back downstairs to share my theory with Harper.
At the bottom of the stairs, I notice a shadowy figure holding out a gun. It’s not Harper. I knew someone was following us. Harper warned me not to play the hero, but I don’t want her to get shot, so I leap down the stairs and pummel into the stalker, knocking both of us—and the gun—onto the floor.
“What’s going on?” Harper skids into the hallway, aiming her gun and kicking away the other one.
“Don’t shoot! It’s me. Roman!”
I roll off of him and pull myself up. “What are you doing here?” I yell in confusion.
“I came to tell you they’re not here.” He gets up, brushing the dirt off of his jacket.
“Clearly,” Harper bites.
“Why were you lurking about, aiming your gun?” I ask.
“I didn’t want to take any risks. If any of Achilles’s men were here, it’d look awfully suspicious, don’t you think?”
Harper eyes him suspiciously, but I wave it off and share my insight. “We have to get back to the house. They never left.”
Roman picks up his gun. “That’s why I’m here. I came to tell you they’re still at the house.”
“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go!” Harper darts out of the building, and we trail behind.
22
(7 days remaining)
Harper and I slink up through the woods until we reach the perimeter of the backyard. It’s after midnight. I only know this because my DOD has changed again. Seven days left. I pull my jacket sleeve down to cover the pale glow illuminating from my wrist, as though this will make me forget. The grand mansion is no longer lit up like birthday cake, but a few drunken stragglers meander along the grounds. Butlers trailing after these guests, ushering them along. Next to the kitchen entrance, workers scuttle in and out, lugging large bags of garbage to the nearby dumpsters.
I point in that direction. “That must be the entrance Roman was talking about.”
“It’s too dangerous for both of us to go, so I’ll trail behind and stick to the shadows.”
Though my nerves are jumpy, I keep a sanguine facade and give her a convincing thumbs up. I’m determined to remove us from the conundrum I got us into.
“Where should I start?” I ask, mustering up as much mettle as I can.
“The wine cellar seems like a good place to torture people.” She pats my shoulder with certitude. “You can do this, Kalli.”
I run across the yard toward the kitchen door just as the sprinkler system fires up. Water shoots at me from all directions, drenching my clothes. Of course it has to be water. I keep running, leaping over the sprinkler heads. I’m only a few feet away from the kitchen door when it shuts, locking me outside. I press against the bricks, waiting for someone to open the door again so I can slide inside. I’d much rather attempt sneaking passed the workers than attempt convincing them I’m supposed to be there. As I’m waiting, I hear a rowdy vehicle coming down the long driveway in my direct
ion. Instead of knocking on the kitchen entrance like a rational person, I impulsively make a running dive over the side of the nearby dumpster, landing on a pile of trash bags. One of the bags bursts open, and red velvet cake frosting smears all over the side of my face and hair. It could be worse, I suppose. The vehicle begins backing up toward the dumpster, clanging its metal prongs into the bottom. A garbage truck. Yes, this is much worse.
“Is it hooked up?” a men shouts.
“Ready to go,” the other one replies.
Loud beeping begins, and the dumpster begins to rise. I’m about to be tossed into the truck with the rest of the garbage. Scrambling, I peak over the side as the dumpster lifts higher. Once the man is inside the truck, I hoist myself over the side and straddle the edge. The lift shifts, and the dumpster starts turning upside down. The pavement isn’t too far away, but the landing is going to hurt. I swing over and hit the cement hard. The beeping stops, and the passenger door opens. I limp away and dive into the bushes, crouching low.
“It’s fine, keep going,” the man yells to his buddy, and the garbage is dispelled into the back of the truck.
I wait until the truck is up the driveway before I move. Using the sleeve of Noah’s jacket, I wipe off the frosting, then readjust my sticky ponytail. Instead of waiting for someone to open the door, I suck it up and knock on the back door. My heart tightens in my chest as I wait. An older woman in a stodgy black dress with a loop of keys attached to her waist appears and studies me before opening the door. “May I help you?”
“I’m ‘ere to pick up de left over wine,” I use an accent.
“Pardon me?”
“An extra shipment got sent. Was told to pick ‘er up.”
“This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
It’s time to use my ace in the hole, even though it might be risky. “Spoke to a fella named Roman.”
She eyes me for a moment, squinting as she takes in my frosting-stained, over-sized jacket. “Wait here while I check on this.”
The door shuts in my face, but she doesn’t lock it. Once it’s clear, I go inside. The kitchen is a cauldron of workers rushing around with stacks of plates or trays of champagne flutes. Some are replacing items to the cabinets, others are washing dishes or wiping down countertops. A tuxedo-clad man carrying a crate of wine bottles heads toward a door at the far end of the kitchen. The wine cellar. I grab a white apron off a hook and throw it over my clothes, then hustle into the kitchen with a purpose. The worker bees are too busy tending to their duties to notice me. I dash to the cellar door and run down the cement stairs where the cool air and pungent scent of barreled wine smacks me in the face. As I start down one of the rows containing hundreds of bottles, I bump into the tuxedo-clad butler.