The McCall Initiative Episode 1.1: Deception

by Lisa Nowak

Chapter 2

  Piper

  Half an hour later, I’m standing on the front steps of Bailey’s house—one of the bigger ones in Ladd’s Addition—dreading what I’m about to do. Parties and I don’t get along. It wouldn’t be so bad if her parents were here, but they’re in Upper Seaside for the weekend.

  Music and voices pulse through the door. I have the perfect excuse to go home—I need to find out why Nick didn’t answer the phone earlier, or again while I was on the bus—but Bailey’s expecting me. Anyway, the lack of response has to be a fluke. If there was an emergency, someone would’ve called.

  I draw cool air deep into my chest, trying to forget Dr. Alvarez’s lecture and drum up my courage. The drizzle is still falling—a calm before the perfect storm. Hard to believe most of the U.S. is a sun-baked cinder this time of year. Except for less snow in the mountains, a few more dams on the rivers, and a big dead zone off the coast, the climate crisis hasn’t affected the Northwest much.

  With my courage as drummed-up as it’s likely to get, I open the door and step inside. Half of Cleveland High must be crammed into the living room, dining room, and foyer. A fog of mojo smoke assaults my lungs, and the whole place reeks of pot. The full-wall video screen, streaming a music station, blasts sound and images that make me want to take shelter in the nearest closet. Only for Bailey would I subject myself to this kind of madness.

  I spot her on the couch.

  “Piper! Come sit.” Her voice beams across the room, about three shades more cheerful than normal. The toothy grin she flashes, and the warm Latina complexion that makes her look tan even in winter, came from her dad. She got lucky there. She could’ve wound up pale like me, with her mom’s Irish skin instead of just her auburn highlights and hazel eyes.

  I push through the throng and lean down to give her a hug. “Happy birthday.”

  As I take a seat beside her, I set my backpack on the floor and paw through it. Bailey’s dad owns condos and industrial properties all over town, so there’s really nothing I can buy that she doesn’t already have. All that leaves is picking out the funniest card in existence. It’s kind of become a tradition between us, trying to top each other every year.

  I hand the envelope to Bailey. She slides a fingernail along the top to slit it, pulls out the card, and starts busting a gut. The guy to my left, Derek or Eric Something-or-other from English, offers me the pipe he’s holding. Judging by the look of people, it’s already made the rounds a few times.

  “No thanks.” Mojo—a combination stimulant and hallucinogen—is supposed to be where it’s at these days, but why would I subject my brain to that crap?

  Derek/Eric passes the pipe—which is appropriately shaped like a skull—to Bailey, who glances at me guiltily before handing it off to the girl beside her. No freakin’ way. Bailey Torres is stoned? I should’ve known something was up from the way she howled at my card, but getting buzzed is totally unlike her. She’s an athlete. Not just on a school team, but in club soccer, too. One of those hard-core types who play year-round in any kind of weather. She jokes about partying, but I’ve never seen her do more than take a few sips of beer. I’d better stick close.

  The video wailing from the wall monitor ends, and another starts up—The Tom McCall Song. It’s an anti-U.S. protest that immortalizes a popular Oregon governor from the 20th century. Jefferson Cooper’s band, Frequent Deadly Lightning, released it years ago, before the McCall Initiative, but now that Cooper’s running for re-election, it’s huge again. Not that it needed the boost. It’s practically Cascadia’s national anthem.

  The familiar lyrics pulse through the room:

  Way back in the ’60s, a hundred years ago,

  There was a man, who took a stand,

  And made our state the promised land.

  He saved our air and rivers, he made our beaches free.

  When others came to stake a claim,

  He said, “Just let us be.”

  What we need now is a hero, a legend who can save us all.

  What we need now is a hero, a man like Tom McCall.

  The song might be the same, but the video is new. Someone combined original band footage with clips of Cooper’s rise to fame, from his early activist days to his election.

  Who’s gonna be our savior, who’s gonna say “enough?”

  Who’s gonna take our borders, and close them suckers up?

  Superstorms slamming the East Coast, drought burning up the Midwest,

  Wildfires in the Rockies, crops eaten up by pests.

  A feast or famine of flood and drought,

  The whole damn country’s a mess.

  Popular moments from Cooper’s first three years as president flash across the screen: him cutting the ribbon at Coho Dam, breaking ground for a geothermal plant in BC, shaking hands with the project manager of the Moma Wind Farm.

  As the chorus gives way to the final verse, the camera zeros in on Cooper jamming on his electric guitar, looking positively pissed off. This is the part that made the song go viral. The part that turned him into a legend.

  The Northwest ain’t your Band-Aid, the Northwest ain’t your crutch.

  It’s time to solve these problems and not just cover ’em up.

  Stop leeching off our power supply.

  Stop trying to drain our rivers dry.

  We can’t save you all and we don’t wanna try.

  Just go away and let us be.

  What we need now is a hero, a legend who can save us all.

  What we need now is a hero, a man like Tom McCall.

  Tom McCall, you’ve gotta save us all.

  Tom McCall, you’ve gotta save us all.

  Tom McCall—please come back. We need a hero who can save us all.

  Bailey, eyes glued to the screen, sighs as the song ends. “And six years later, he’s still scorching.”

  I laugh. “He’s twice your age. Give it up.”

  “He’s thirty-one. That’s only …” she stops to count on her fingers, “… fourteen years older. We could make it work. I’m open-minded.”

  “Yeah, but his Secret Service would—” A burst of snickering breaks out on my left, and I turn to see the guy beside Derek/Eric playing with my MedEval. My backpack lies open on the floor. That son of a—

  “Dude, check it out!” He holds up the monitor as he tokes off the pipe, which has made its way back around the room to him.

  “Hey, give me that!” I reach for the MedEval, but Loser Boy sweeps it away, holding it up out of reach.

  “Did you see what happened to my heart rate when I took a hit?”

  “No kidding, dimwad. That oughta give you a clue about how stupid it is to smoke that stuff. Now give it back!” I latch onto the MedEval screen, and he releases it.

  “Whatever you say, Doc,” he grunts, tossing the finger clip at me. I snatch it out of the air as he snickers and Derek/Eric joins in, along with a couple of others.

  “Whassamatter?” Loser Boy motions toward my scrub shirt. “All your real clothes in the wash?”

  Everyone stares at me, making my face burn. I stuff the MedEval into my backpack and jam it between me and Bailey on the couch.

  She hooks an arm around my neck. “Grow up, jerk,” she says to Loser Boy. “Just because Piper knows what she wants to do with her life doesn’t give you any excuse to rip on her.”

  “Aw, I was just messing around.”

  “Well, do it somewhere else. This is an asshole-free zone.”

  I want to get up and leave, and not just because I’m humiliated. But with Bailey sampling the stratosphere, I can’t. Even though she looks okay now, that could change fast if she keeps sucking that stuff down. What if some creeper tries to take advantage of her, or these bozos trash her house?

  I stick it out until the end of the party, sitting by Bailey and trying not to think about what a craptastic night this has turned into. Chaos swirls around me, but my guilt-inducing presence keeps her from imbibing more mojo, and by the time everyone leaves, she�
��s border-line sober.

  We throw the food scraps into the compost bin, pour the half-empties down the drain, and shove the furniture back into position. The place still looks like a superstorm swept through, but Bailey assures me she can take care of the rest tomorrow.

  “Thanks for staying,” she says, twisting a long strand of hair around her finger. “I know it had to be your idea of hell.”

  I shrug as I swing my backpack over my shoulder.

  “And the mojo. It was twenty kinds of stupid. I could get kicked off the team for that.”

  Right. Because nuking half a million brain cells is nothing, so long as you can still kick a soccer ball. “You’re not going to do it again, are you?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Okay. Then we’re cool.” I give her a hug and head out the door.

  As I walk the twelve blocks home, I try not to psych over my conversation with Dr. Alvarez. It’s not like she’s ditching me from the program. It was just a warning. I’ve got three months to fix things.

  I round the corner to see our house completely dark, and something cold skitters up my spine. Mom always waits up for me. Even if she crashed, the flicker of video should be spilling from the living room window. Grandpa lives for Midnight with Maddox.

  Spooked, I jog up the driveway and onto the porch. The doorknob won’t turn in my hand. My heart thumps. Mom never locks up before I get home. Did something happen to Grandpa? A glance confirms our old beater Mazda’s still here. If Mom had to call an ambulance, she would’ve followed it in her car.

  I yank my key out of my pocket, fighting to get it into the lock. When the door finally gives way, dead quiet greets me.

  I flip on the light. “Mom? Grandpa?”

  Silence.

  The pounding of my pulse fills the void. Adrenaline surges through my veins. I hurry across the living room to check the kitchen. If something bad happened, Mom would leave a note where I’d be sure to see it—on the table, or the video screen. I find nothing.

  Damn! Why didn’t I come home right after work? Why didn’t I pay attention to that first prickle of worry?

  I head down the hallway, my breath tight in my chest. Nick’s door is closed. When I swing it open, I find the bed empty, the tangled blankets trailing to the floor. Fear grips me, an icy hand squeezing my heart.

  “Mom?” My voice comes out in a shriek. I rush to her room, the hallway suddenly five miles long. No one here, either.

  Shit. Oh shit! What’s going on?

  I stand with one hand on the wall, trying to get a grip. Think, Piper. There has to be an explanation. But not one shred of logic can penetrate my rattled brain.

  The slightest creak sounds behind me. I jump and turn. A man steps out of Grandpa’s bedroom. He raises his hand, and I don’t wait to see what’s in it. I just throw myself into Mom’s room, slamming the door behind me. My panicked fingers fumble with the lock, and then I’m rushing across the floor as the guy tries to kick his way in.

  I slide open the window, rip loose the screen. Behind me, wood splinters and light floods in from the hallway. I scramble over the sill and into the night. There’s no time to think, no time to figure things out. I need to run, to hide. Instinct screams not to risk circling around the house, so I cut from our small, unfenced yard into the neighbor’s. I sprint down Woodward, up 22nd, along Taggart. If the guy is still on my tail, maybe I’ll lose him by changing course. My phone lets out the beep-beep-beep-squeal of an incoming emergency alert, but I ignore it. I don’t slow down until I’m across Division.

  Finally I stop, leaning forward, hands on thighs. My breath rages through my throat. Now what? My family’s gone. Some maniac is after me. What am I supposed to do?

  Bailey. She’ll help. She’s a goofball and a flirt—not exactly the type to step up in an emergency—but she’d rip her own kidney out of her body for me. I run to her house and knock on the door. It takes her only a second to answer.

  “Piper! Get in here, quick.” She drags me inside.

  “My family,” I gasp, falling back against the closed door. “They’re gone, just like in those stories Nick tells. There was a strange man in my house. I think he had a gun.”

  “That explains the alert they just sent out.” Bailey wags her wrist phone in my face.

  That was about me?

  “There’s a warrant out for your arrest,” Bailey tells me, sounding fully sober now. “They say you held up some doctor at OHSU to get drugs.”

  “What?”

  “We need to go.” She pulls off her phone, tossing it on the coffee table. “They’ll know you’re here now.”

  Crap. My phone. They can track me through it. I pull it off, dropping it to the table like it’s contaminated with flesh-eating bacteria.

  Bailey scoops it up and snaps the moldable plastic back around my wrist. “No, we’ve got to use this to throw them off your trail. Let’s go.”

  My mind is such a scramble, I can’t even ask questions. I follow her out the door, down the street, to the bus stop on 12th. The buses only run every fifteen minutes between midnight and 6 a.m., so we have to wait. I pace back and forth, yammering about what just happened. Bailey mutters soothing things. She’s freaking amazing. Not once has she stopped to ask questions—to wonder if that broadcast might be true. My eyes prickle, and the babble chokes off in my throat.

  “Don’t lose it on me, Piper,” Bailey says, pulling me into a hug. “We’re gonna get rid of your phone, then I’ll take you some place safe, and tomorrow morning we’ll figure this whole thing out.”

  Figure it out? How? My family’s gone. I’m a fugitive. My life is over.

  The bus rolls up before I can put all that in words. I follow Bailey on board and we ride toward the MAX station. Questions keep cycling through my head. Where are Nick, Mom, and Grandpa? Who took them? Are they okay? My thoughts go back to the stuff Nick said about drug testing and weird experiments. I know those things can’t be true, but I didn’t think the disappearances were real either.

  “I should’ve gone home,” I mumble, my head resting against the cool glass of the window.

  “What?”

  “I called Mom and Nick, but they didn’t answer. I should’ve gone home. Maybe I could’ve saved them.”

  “Right. You just would’ve gotten nabbed, too.”

  Maybe. Probably. But that doesn’t make me feel any less guilty. “This whole thing is whacked. Why would anyone go to so much trouble to set me up?” I keep my voice to a whisper even though there’s only a couple other people on the bus.

  “They obviously don’t want witnesses. I’m guessing when you got away from the guy at your house, they let loose with that emergency alert. Probably had it ready to go, just in case.”

  Who has that kind of power? Some weird Cascadian mafia? The government? I let out a breath and close my eyes, my head jiggling against the window every few seconds when the bus smacks a pothole.

  Bailey’s fingers close over mine and squeeze. “Don’t worry, Piper. I’ve got your back.”

  And she’s going to take on people who can control the police and media?

  When we reach the transit center by the Rose Garden Arena, Bailey gets up, taking my hand to pull me with her. Like a mother undressing a little kid, she snaps the phone off my wrist. “Wait here.”

  She jogs across the plaza to the raised platform for SuperMAX, the light rail that runs the heavily populated I-5 corridor between Medford and New Seattle. When a train whooshes to a stop, she slips through the open door and emerges a second later without the phone.

  “There,” she says. “You’re now officially on your way to Medford.”

  I gawk. I’ve never seen Bailey take charge like this. She’s lucky if she remembers her lunch money. Every thing she’s done—leaving her phone at home, taking me on the bus instead of in her car, luring the cops away from Portland—is like a carefully orchestrated surgery. Where did she learn to think on her feet like this?

  “Now what?” I ask
. Even though I’ve got a jacket, and the temperature must be in the upper fifties, I’m shivering.

  “Now we get you off the streets.” Bailey slings an arm over my shoulders and directs me to the MAX yellow line.

  We ride to the Albina/Mississippi stop, where she gets up and leads me out into the darkness. The streets are deserted.

  “What are we doing here?” I ask.

  “You’ll see.” She walks briskly, leading me up Albina, then down Russell, where she ducks into an empty parking lot that’s closed in on three sides.

  “This is the White Eagle Saloon, one of Dad’s properties,” she says, cutting through an overgrown tangle of trees and vines to an outdoor seating area beside the long, narrow brick building. The vegetation is so thick it blots out the streetlights.

  “The city wants to build condos here, so they’ve condemned everything on this block,” Bailey adds. “This place has been closed for almost a year, but they aren’t going to tear it down until next winter.” Her dad pays her a hefty allowance for helping him keep an eye on properties like this, reporting back to him about graffiti and anything that looks suspicious.

  I follow her to the side door, where she punches a code into a keypad. Inside, the building is pitch black and smells faintly of stale beer and fry grease. Bailey pulls a light tube out of her purse and clicks it on. The plastic gives off a bright white glow that illuminates a ten foot circle around us and makes the few remaining chairs and tables cast eerie shadows against the walls.

  “You can stay here as long as you need to,” Bailey says. “I’ll bring you some clothes and food tomorrow.” She sets her purse down on the bar. “C’mon, let’s go upstairs to see if the last owners left behind any mattresses or bedding.”

  The full extent of what I’m up against only now sinks in. I’m going to have to camp out in this creepy old tavern. For days, maybe. Thank God Bailey seems to know what she’s doing. Without her, I would’ve collapsed in the street by now, a zombified mess.

  I follow her outside. She takes me around to the back of the building and up an open metal staircase. The lights of downtown Portland glimmer from just across the river. Even with the darkness hiding me, I feel exposed up here on the landing. I huddle against the wall and dart inside as soon as Bailey opens the door.

  “This was the hotel,” she says. “It’s not accessible from the bar. It’d probably be more comfortable than downstairs, but if you have to get in and out, you’ll be too visible coming up the back steps.” She leads me along the narrow hallway, opening one door after another to shine her light into the tiny rooms. We find a small closet, but there’s nothing inside.

  “The front entry’s out, too,” Bailey says. “It’s in plain sight of Widmer Brewery down the street, and their restaurant gets a lot of traffic. Your best bet’s coming in and out the way I showed you. Unless we can find the tunnel.”

  “Tunnel?” It’s the first word I’ve said since we got off the MAX.

  “Yeah, there’s supposed to be one that leads to the waterfront, but it’s been closed off for eons. Rumor has it, guys used to get shanghaied out of the bar in the early twentieth century and dragged through the tunnel to ships waiting on the river, but really it was probably just used to bring in illegal liquor. This place is supposed to be haunted, too, so if someone sees you, maybe you’ll get lucky and they’ll think you’re a ghost.”

  The way she’s talking—like I’m destined to spend the rest of my life camped out in a derelict building—sucks my already-tanked mood into a bottomless pit. Is that all I can expect now? In the course of an hour, I went from being an ambitious, law-abiding high school student to becoming a wanted criminal. A wanted criminal without a family. My mind darts off in twelve directions, all of them sinister. Shut up! I scream silently at myself. You can’t think like that. You just can’t.

  Bailey opens a door near the front of the building to reveal a bigger room with a bed. “Bonus!”

  We lug the mattress down the stairs, through the narrow gap in the vegetation, and into the bar. After we thump it onto the small, wooden stage in the back corner, Bailey flops down on top of it. I wiggle out of my backpack and tuck it into the space between the mattress and wall before collapsing beside my friend, breathing hard. Staring up at the ceiling, I try not to think.

  “We can check the basement for bedding,” Bailey says after a long silence.

  “Don’t worry about it.” I don’t give a rat’s right foot about bedding. How can I care about anything like that now?

  My eyes tear as the stillness lets all my fears rush me at once. My throat goes tight, but I manage to squeeze a few words past the obstruction. “What if they hurt them, Bailey …? What if they killed them?”

  She turns toward me, propping herself on one elbow. “They didn’t! You listen to me, Piper. Your family is okay, and we’re going to find them. You got that?”

  My eyes fill, and I close them, feeling the hot wetness of tears run down my temples and into my hair.

  Bailey shakes my shoulder. “You got that, Piper?”

  “Y-yeah,” I gulp.

  “Good.” She lays back down, her arm draped across my rib cage and her forehead pressed against my cheek as I cry.

  I’d like to believe this new take-charge Bailey can fix everything. But deep down, I know I’m screwed.