by Frank Owen
‘Blasphemy. Remember how tight-ass he was about that stuff?’
But Buddy made a sorry devil. Adams had gone to meet him in the foyer, and it was clear that he was drunk enough to sway, the stink of cigarettes clinging to him like a censer. Adams said something quiet and deliberate in his ear, and the little man nodded. Adams backed away. Buddy balanced on one unsteady foot and began to undress. The red HARRIERS cap came off first. Vida realized she was going to miss him: the ready chatter but also the protection he had offered. He was the only person in this building who cared about what happened to her.
It was really happening. He was really going to die here. Not today, maybe, but soon.
Buddy stood naked. He didn’t even try to hide his privates. He was beyond embarrassment now. Beyond shame, even. It was the quietest Vida had ever heard the Capitol Building: people were transfixed as he stripped, as if the tattoos were Bible verses, and Buddy was the Word made flesh.
The etchings ranged wider than she and Dyce had been allowed to see, as if they’d spread like blood poisoning in the dark – not pictures, but an alphabet of pain. The record marks crawled down his thighs and around to his buttocks, and she had to blink them away when they made her eyes blur. It was as if they had taken on a life of their own – or taken on Buddy’s life in exchange for the terrible things he’d done.
Yet this was still the same gentle man who’d rescued them, mild and calm in the face of their agony and distress. Wasn’t it?
She looked around at the other witnesses from where she’d hobbled into a small space, guarding her leg against the shoving. There must be some people here who had been at the receiving end of some of his atrocities. Vida studied the faces in view, but they were blank, expectant. Relieved, maybe? Was Buddy right? Maybe they weren’t his own sins: they were Renard’s, and Buddy had been a vector, the way the viruses needed carriers to replicate and spread.
No, Vida decided, and there was a tiny flutter under her navel, as if the fetus was pleased. We all decide what to do with the hand we’re dealt. You get what you get, and you don’t get upset.
The cell was ready. Now Adams was leading Buddy up the staircase, around the muffled atrium and through the Senate Chamber. Here and there hands reached out to touch Buddy as he went past, like there was magic that might rub off. When he passed Dyce, he didn’t look up, but they saw the dark splashes on the floor where his sweat or tears had dripped. Dyce thought again of the bag of mince, and Gracie flopped next to it. FEAR NOT, her sampler had said. FEAR NOT, FOR I AM WITH YOU.
‘You don’t have to do it,’ Dyce blurted, but Buddy was streaming tears, being urged on by Adams, and he staggered past. The rest of the Northerners peeled away from the walls as he went, a growing throng as well as an armed guard, making sure he would see his promise through. They didn’t really care if it worked, Vida thought. They just wanted someone to do something. It felt like action; it felt like progress.
At the door to the cell, Adams stopped and held Buddy by the shoulders. ‘We’ve done our best to think of everything. Take a look. There’s even a couch.’
The little man shook his head, but he looked Adams in the eyes.
Adams went on. ‘You’re a good man, Buddy. You’re a better man than me. Now the end has come, and it is your chance to end the suffering for us all, to put things right, to restore the order of things.’ He paused, his voice changing from death-row priest to old friend and conspirator. ‘There is no more to fear.’
Buddy blurted a sob and a rope of mucus dangled suddenly from his stricken face. Vida thought of Stringbeard, the woman who had spent her last days looking for her ghost dog, all the lost people, the ones driven mad by the hopelessness of their new world, their bonds to the people who loved them worn through by Renard. He had a lot to answer for, that fucker. He didn’t know how much – questions about her own life, and questions about the way the world had turned out. And she was going to get the chance to ask them.
Adams was wiping Buddy’s face with a frayed handkerchief. He stuffed it back in his pocket and held the little man by the shoulders.
‘This is where we must part ways, my friend. It’s time for you to go in there. We’re real proud of you. And we’re counting on you. All of us, we’re counting on you. Now listen carefully. When the door is locked, feel around for the bowls. We set out as many mushrooms as we could find. We’ve covered them to keep the spores from floating around. Lucky they grow so fast! What you got to do, you got to uncover those mushrooms like it’s a fancy restaurant and you’ve ordered the steak tartare. Then you just sit back and breathe deep. They’ll come to you.’
Like a gas chamber at the dog pound, thought Dyce. Like a fucking gas chamber! Who volunteers for that? It was just plain wrong.
Buddy sniffed and Adams added quickly, ‘There’ll be air and everything now, but you won’t be getting the water tomorrow. We can’t prolong it. You won’t suffer. It’ll be like going to sleep. Wouldn’t you like that?’ He squeezed Buddy’s shoulder again, but now that the man was calmer, he seemed to have nothing to say. Vida had heard about it happening with snakes and rabbits: a kind of death dance where the victim accepted its fate and waited, quivering, for the end. But this: she didn’t buy it. Surely a person should fight until they couldn’t? Wasn’t that what Ruth had taught her? Buddy wasn’t even saying goodbye, like his mind was already somewhere else where it couldn’t be touched. He crossed over the threshold and was swallowed by the dimness of the cell.
‘I’ll see you on the other side, my brother,’ Adams announced, as if the scene called for some coda, and then he closed the door, fast. Vida saw how he used his full weight on the deadbolts so there was no way that Buddy could change his mind at the last moment. He beckoned some helpers – had they also been there all along? – and they busily began to seal the door with grease, pressing it into the breathing cracks.
While they were working, Adams turned to the crowd; he was the reverend again.
‘Today he breathes spores. Tomorrow he breathes a virus. The next day we will be ready. Go now and prepare yourselves!’
‘Amen! On the third day, our Savior shall rise!’ whispered Vida into Dyce’s ear. He grimaced behind the head of the person in front of him, careful not to let Adams see him do it. The guy was as bad as Renard – as ruthlessly single-minded.
Or worse, maybe. If you wiped out everything in the world, you only had to do it once. But redemption: that needed repeating.
The halls emptied as the residents of the Capitol Building went back to their work, mildly stunned. Vida watched them at their tasks, waiting for the flow of human traffic to ease. Most people were filling gas tanks or packing rations or checking weapons for rust. They worked shoulder to shoulder, but no one spoke beyond what was necessary in order to get things done. There was something sickening about it, thought Vida, that reverence and relief that came when someone else told you what to do, when everyone was working for one purpose.
They made their way back in a daze to their quarters, and Ruth made Vida lie down so that her dressing could be changed. The wound was crusty and yellowing, but there was no sign of septicemia.
Vida lay staring at the cherrywood ceiling, imagining what they were all imagining: Buddy alone in that cell, the dish lids removed from the mushrooms, the spores escaping to fill the air till it grew thick as soup. They listened in the quiet for the distant coughing.
It would be like drowning, Dyce thought. Just like that.
43
‘Good day. Secretary to the President’s office.’ The woman who answered had clearly been trained to smile when she talked.
Hank had to clear his throat. ‘Hello, ma’am. I know how this is going to sound, but I have a very important message for Renard. I mean, for President Renard.’
‘How did you get this number, sir?’
‘No, no. Sorry. I’m not a . . . a civilian. I’m a patrolman. Badge number 7798-RG. You can check that if you want. I got it from the head of policing at th
e Casper station – Jules Priory? Badge 4498-RH. This is, uh, of the highest priority. Top secret and really, really urgent. Can I speak with him?’
‘I’m sorry, sir. What you’re looking for is public relations. I’ll give you the number. Do you have a piece of paper?’
‘Ma’am? You don’t understand. It’s a personal matter. Of a highly personal nature. Life-and-death-type situation.’
‘Patrolman, you should know that no one speaks directly to the President. But if you call the public relations department and leave your name and number . . .’
Hank was rubbing his forehead, over and over. ‘Can I at least tell you the message?’
‘Sir—’
He blurted out, ‘He has a daughter! President Renard, I mean.’ The secretary was silent. Hank tried again. ‘And that’s not the end of it. She’s pregnant now – all grown up, of course – and he needs to know he’s going to be a grandfather!’
‘Sir, how did you come by this information?’
‘Just tell him the name. Will you do that? Ruth Vambane. She was a sister in the labs. Just tell him the name.’
‘Sir, I—’
‘Lady, there’s no protocol for this. I realize that, but it’s true. And I wouldn’t be taking this chance if I thought that information was untrustworthy. The President needs to know!’ He lowered his voice – not a threat, exactly, but close. ‘If you don’t pass this along, well, I don’t see him being too happy about it.’
The secretary was silent. Hank tried to imagine what she looked like, but the smile in her voice was long gone, and there were no other clues.
‘Come on,’ he wheedled. ‘Just take my number down. If she turns out to be a screwball he needs to know that too. Take it down and then tell him that name and just see what he says. Deal?’
She sighed, and Hank felt his heart swell with relief. ‘What’s the number?’
‘0339714895. And it’s Ruth Vambane.’
‘Is that all you want to say?’
‘That’s it, I think. And thank you. Thank you so much! You’re doing the right thing.’
Hank hung up the phone, his hands wet with nerves. They were all staring at him from the other side of the desk: Adams, Ruth, Dyce and Vida, the crutches leaning against the wall.
‘I did it, all right?’
‘Okay, Hank,’ said Adams. ‘Good job. Ruth, you’re up next. When this phone rings – and Hank better hope it does – you’re answering. You remember where and when you’re going to meet?’
‘Yes,’ Ruth said. They watched her swallowing hard, readying herself to go toe-to-toe with her guilty past. Not a lot of people got that chance, did they? she told herself as she patted her hair. ‘Don’t be stupid. Of course I remember.’
Adams called out for someone to take Hank back to his cell. Luck or planning meant that it was Otis who arrived, Native American heritage strong in his veins, his dark face set in its hatchet lines. He was going to walk stiffly for a couple of days, and the bandages wrapped under his chin and around his head weren’t coming off any time soon. His dark hair was still matted with dried blood.
‘Go easy on him, Otis,’ said Adams. ‘We might still need him. Life is unpredictable, isn’t it, Hank? And try not to let him go this time. Shame on me and all of that.’
Silently Otis took Hank by the arm and the two of them went out together, companions in injury and resentment.
‘Now we wait,’ said Adams. He moved around the table and took up the seat where Hank had been. He lifted a leg and rested it on the corner of the table, master of his domain.
It must have been about fifteen minutes by Dyce’s reckoning, but it felt longer. The phone shrilled. By the second ring Adams had jumped up out of his seat, offering it to Ruth with an exaggerated bow.
She grimaced and reached for the receiver, and for a moment it felt too heavy to lift. She forced her fingers to grip the handset and press it to her ear, where Renard’s breath rasped against her head like the sea. Her voice was weak and she hated herself for it.
‘Hello.’
‘Ruth?’
It was him. Of course it was. His voice hadn’t changed, even after all these years. She’d heard it in her secret, violent dreams – and they were all nightmares, Renard had seen to that. She’d run as far as she could and yet here she was – trapped into parleying with him again.
‘Speaking.’
‘Is it true? About the girl?’ His voice was shaky, and that was worse.
‘It’s true.’
‘Ruthie, you ran away. You took her away from me.’ He sounded like he was going to cry, and Ruth didn’t know if she would be able to bear it.
She twisted her finger in the phone cord and made her voice cold. ‘I did what I thought was best for her.’
‘So why call me now?’
‘It wasn’t my idea. She wants to meet you. She’s all grown up and, Didier, she’s pregnant. She wants to meet the grandfather of her child. Try and put her family back together.’
‘Ruth. Ruthie.’ He was crooning at her, a man trying to make a little girl sit on his knee. ‘What have you told her about me?’
‘Nothing. She didn’t know about you until a few days ago. You think I’m proud of it? She wants to meet you. I can’t stop her. I told her how I feel, but she wants to make her own mind up.’
‘Clever girl.’
‘It would be best for everyone if you just said you didn’t want to meet her. I promised I’d call you and ask, but I don’t want any part of this.’ Reverse psychology. She looked over at Adams, who was giving her a big thumbs-up sign. She waved him away.
Renard’s voice hardened. ‘Listen carefully. I want to meet her. She’s my daughter. She’s mine as well as yours, and that counts for something in my book. Oh, yes, it does.’
His fear’s gone, thought Ruth. He thinks he’s entitled to her! Same old Didier Renard.
She looked at her hand in her lap and clenched it into a fist to stop herself hurling the phone down and grabbing Vida, making off with her somewhere safe as soon as she could. Now that he knew she existed, they would never have another moment’s peace.
What had they done?
‘Ruth-ie,’ sang Renard. ‘Are you still there?’
‘We’ll be in Chicago in three days’ time, and I’ll tell you the terms. You come alone, or it’s not going to happen. Maple Lake Overlook – you’ll find it on a map. Eight a.m., three days from now. I mean it. If you’re not alone, we’re not coming.’
‘I’ll be there. And Ruthie, if I invite my little girl back for a sleepover at her daddy’s house, will you let her go?’
‘I’m hanging up now.’
‘Ruth, wait. What’s her name?’
Ruth paused. She didn’t want to hear the name come out of his mouth. ‘It’s Vida.’
‘Vida. That’s lovely. To life!’
‘Fuck you,’ said Ruth, and she hurled the phone down.
44
Kurt stared at Otis, and tried not to look like he was staring. This was what the revolution was about! He had liked the previous instructors: a pretty-faced man named Farrow, who gave a lesson in carrying weapons – how to run with them, where to keep a handgun, how best to access ammo – and a woman, Gabby, with a greasy bob of brunette hair, who had lectured them about what to do if they were captured. She spoke about the time frame during which all information would be sensitive, how to withstand torture – and what kind they might expect. Old Norma could have done with a little of that, Kurt thought.
But it was Otis who really fascinated him. He was so quiet about it – so matter-of-fact. The man was silent, thanks to the bandages around his chin, even as he led the class in the A–Z of weaponry. He had started by demonstrating how weapons were all around them – shards of glass or stones or dirt. But Kurt had already known that, hadn’t he? He smoothed Norma’s blouse over his sides, nicely washed but still testifying to her sticky end. It was going to bring him good luck. Besides, it was the other stuff he was keen on: the han
dguns and the rifles with scopes, the ones that could put a hole in the moon if he wanted.
Kurt was sorry now that he had found out that the old couple he’d sent down the North Platte were Resistance. He’d figured it out when Gabby was talking about the threats out there in the wild world – she mentioned them, murdered and thrown in the river while they were driving the banks looking for Southern survivors. She was quiet for a moment when she was done, as though she had a closer connection to them than simply fellow fighters. But why hadn’t the old man and his wife been more wary, more vigilant? That was stupid. Trust no one.
These guys, though! They really knew what they were doing. Kurt decided immediately that he wouldn’t let on that it was he who’d killed the two old people. No sense in that. Now Adams was talking. Kurt willed even the little hairs inside his ears to pay attention. This was his big chance.
D-Day would start with a mushroom dinner at ten thirty in the evening, and then a long drive along the back roads to Chicago. The cars would split off at intersections and rejoin down the line so that they didn’t look to outsiders like a convoy. Heads nodded in agreement, and Adams went on. Weapons were to be stashed in ice-hockey bags – ‘I know no one here is Wayne Gretzky,’ he chuckled – or in specially crafted compartments in the upholstery. If a cop pulled a car over, and if the driver couldn’t talk his or her way out of a search, then the officer would get a bullet. Adams shrugged, and no one disagreed. This was war. Each car would have one executioner. Another passenger would put the body into the boot of the cop car and it too would join the procession. Bloodstains on the interstate would be covered with sand. Bullet shells would be collected.
Kurt was impressed. They really had thought of everything. He looked across at Felix to gauge his reaction. His whole life he’d heard stories about the legendary Weatherman from the rest of the Callahans, but so far he was completely different to the rumors. They’d said he was a grumpy hermit, lived like a gopher in a hole under an old dam; how he was Callahan only by blood – and pussy through and through.
