by Matt Moore
Daniel smirked. “All I can ask.” He glanced past Archie and waved. “Give me a call sometime. Let’s catch up. For now, please excuse me.” Daniel turned and was swallowed up by the adoring crowd.
Archie waited until the security detail had moved off before manoeuvring toward the server.
The server turned and the hairs on Archie’s neck stood. He’d seen the server before. More words from Jimenez: move—never pause when you’re trying to place someone. Archie casually took a flute of champagne, noting the golden nametag reading “Jacob” pinned to one lapel and a One Faith button to the other. “Excuse me,” Archie began, “but I think the men’s room might be out of order.”
The server, Jacob, extended a white-gloved hand. “If you go through this door, the staff restroom is on the third level.”
Archie noticed the door down a narrow service hallway, thanked the man and left the flute on a table. He cut his way through the crowd and opened the door onto a plain, off-white stairwell. Climbing, Archie tried to place Jacob. He made Archie not think of Daniel, but of Pious. He mentally scanned through faces at the safe house, but that didn’t feel right. Exiting into a narrow, equally plain hallway, he thought of his excursions with Timothy and that felt closer. A group of housekeepers chatted down the hall, but paid him no mind as he passed several doors before finding the bathroom, still no closer to placing Jacob.
He stepped into a tiny room, barely large enough for a toilet and small closet. Archie shut the door, threw the deadbolt, and removed a key from under his large belt buckle that he used to unlock the closet. Within he found a fanny pack and the custom-made, battered leather suitcase he thought he’d seen the last of two days ago.
The memory clicked into place: the cyclist at the mall. Probably the same cyclist who’d stopped across the street later that night.
So Jacob had been watching him. But who’d sent him: Pious or Daniel? Archie looked in the mirror, giving himself a chance to back out, but the tanned, lined face of the old man stared back.
The village had looked deserted. They’d watched it for an hour, soaked in sweat and oppressive humidity, before moving in. The old man had come out of a hut, a rifle in one hand. Gaunt with dehydration and malnutrition, his threadbare clothing covered in what could have been mud or blood. He’d stumbled toward Archie, free hand reaching for the full water bottle on Archie’s belt. Archie had drawn the combat knife he’d taken from a solider he’d killed two days before and plunged it into the man’s neck. The man hadn’t made a sound as he collapsed, eyes wide, free hand held to his gushing wound. Archie watched him die. He’d killed almost a hundred men by then, but always from a distance. He’d never smelled hot, coppery blood as it sprayed from a wound.
He’d felt nothing. Just empty.
Like now.
Archie turned away from his reflection. He opened the fanny pack, which contained white cotton gloves, several keys with fobs identifying them by letter, a One Faith button and a hotel nametag inscribed with “Paul.” After tearing off the bracelet on his wrist, Archie pinned the nametag and button in place before donning the gloves, grabbing the case and leaving the room.
He followed the route through the building he’d memorized the night before, moving purposefully through halls and up staircases, suitcase in hand, never hesitating as he used his keys to gain access to restricted areas. Staff didn’t pay any attention because, with the gloves, button and nametag, he looked like one of them.
Unlocking and opening the last door released Daniel’s amplified voice. “—nations of the world, developing nations especially, need access to this technology.” Archie stepped onto a narrow catwalk that lined the curved rear wall of the auditorium, high above the crowd. He climbed a ladder to a platform supporting a row of huge, oven-hot lights. His entire body broke into a sweat.
“The solution,” Daniel’s voice boomed, “is a single, worldwide economy with a single, worldwide currency.” Applause broke out.
Archie opened the case, revealing the rifle’s components. Assembling it, his shirt and underwear sweat-matted to his skin. He tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone bone-dry. On stage, Daniel’s entire body moved as he spoke. “We can no longer wish that the world’s industrialized nations will do what is right. The failures of Kyoto, Paris, and Melbourne prove this.”
Approving applause shook the catwalk.
Archie loaded the rifle, lay down and balanced the rifle on its bipod.
“Nations who do not utilize green technologies must be forced to comply.”
Shutting one eye, Archie looked through the scope.
“But we must be united,” Daniel said, hand slicing the air and then going still. The applause rose, held for a moment and faded to expectant silence.
Archie blinked sweat from his eyes, centred the crosshairs on Daniel’s head, and let old habits settle in: breath slow, don’t move, feel your heart rate to shoot between beats.
“We must have one faith for our one world, with one currency and”—a smirk twisted the corner of Daniel’s mouth—“one strong leader to show the way!”
The crowd erupted.
Archie squeezed the trigger. The report was lost in the sound of the frenzied crowd, who fell silent when Daniel flew backwards and out of Archie’s sight.
Security swarmed the stage, guns drawn and scanning the now-screaming audience.
Archie dialled back the scope’s magnification to see more. After several moments of panning the jostling bodies, he spotted Daniel. He lay on his back, limbs twisted, in a rapidly growing pool of blood. What remained of his skull left no doubt it had been a kill shot. An instant later, security guards obscured his view.
The satisfaction or triumph Archie had imagined didn’t come, nor regret or guilt. Just the tired emptiness he’d felt as life left the eyes of that old man in the jungle.
Pious had instructed Archie to go back the way he’d come, holding the rifle like he was ready to open fire, and wait for security to make him a martyr. Archie didn’t believe in martyrdom, but taking a round between the eyes was better than being caught.
But a fall from the catwalk would be quicker and remove any chance of bad aim.
He stood and swung a leg over the railing, looking down at the sea of roiling bodies screaming and pressing for the exits.
Hesitation gripped him—he might hurt or even kill someone down there.
But they were as guilty as Daniel.
He swung his other leg over, holding the railing with both hands and leaning into nothingness.
Another hesitation. He might kill one or two with his fall, but what about the others? They adored Daniel. They worshiped him. They wouldn’t fade away with their Godhead dead. Someone would fill the vacuum.
Someone who might be worse.
But until that successor emerged, there was a window to fight back, to challenge what Daniel had created and expose him as a fraud. That meant organizing researchers and politicians who’d opposed Daniel. And being ready for the backlash the Disciplines were certain to unleash.
Another fight was coming. A fight he needed to be involved in.
Archie swung back over the railing onto the platform.
Leaving the gun, he descended the ladder to the catwalk, wondering if he could find Jacob. And if he could trust Jacob like he’d trusted Timothy. Opening the door, a cool breeze brushed Archie’s skin. He stepped into the deserted hallway and headed back the way he had come.
Balance
Did you know the driver of the other car?
—screeching tires, voices shrieking—
—deafening slam—
—rain-soaked, blood-streaked blacktop—
Brian’s eyes shot open. Heart pounding, blood thundering in his ears. World teetering madly. “Oh god,” he gasped. Fingers dug into torn polyester armrests. Bile pushed up his throat, threatening—
“No,” he declared to the empty room, willing himself to take slow, deep breaths and lower his heart rate. He’d merely fallen
asleep in his leather recliner in his media room and a man like him did not get rattled by something as trivial as a reoccurring nightmare. The dream’s surreal imagery of the collision that had killed his wife and son was horrific, he admitted, but in reality he had not been present to witness the event.
He had had no indication anything had been amiss until the detective—
—Did you know the driver of the other car?—
Fingering his left palm. That scar. He yanked his hands apart.
The argument. What he’d said without thinking.
—price and balance for everything—
“I am not thinking about this,” he declared, voice calm and even. He had nothing to balance nor a price to pay. All of it—the fight a few nights ago, the accident, talking to the detective (“Did you know—”), the fact that he did indeed know the other driver—amounted to nothing more than a bad dream brought on, no doubt, by a few vestiges of anxiety regarding his meeting tomorrow. Not that he had any reason to be concerned, but the importance of this meeting could not be overstated. Yet spending the night in this chair, as luxurious as its custom-made leather seat might be, would do him no good. He needed to turn in.
Painted in the dancing white-black of a dead TV channel, speakers roaring static, Brian’s hand passed the tumbler and grasp the remote. The 72” plasma screen blinked and went dead, the Dolby 7.1 sound system fell silent, and darkness consumed the room.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the neighbourhood remained as still and dark—lit only by the streetlights—as when he’d sat down unknown hours ago. Calm, predictable, logical—the way he’d structured his life. His commitment to order and discipline had allowed him to transform from a barely-getting-by college student with a youthfully foolish interest in photography to the man he was today. He owned a 4,500 square foot home in one of Kanata’s exclusive gated communities. A BMW M3 convertible waited in one of the garage’s three spaces. Rather than become some poor photographer who scraped by while clinging to dreams of artistic success, he’s built a career that had weathered the economic downturn. All before turning thirty. His sole unachieved goal remained a wife and children to provide the—
—balance—
—anchor he needed to remind him of what truly mattered among a life of tough negotiations, all-day meetings and hard-fought deals.
Brian flipped on the lamp on the small table—
The kitchen phone rang. He nearly screamed. His right hand found his left palm. For years, that scar hadn’t been noticeable. Not unless he looked for it. But the next morning. After the fight. That barely-there scar had become a white ridge in his skin.
The phone rang again.
Not gonna answer, he told himself. What if it was that detective? More questions, she might say.
Or that girl—Chrissy—from so long ago at Camp McDonald? Maybe she’d tracked him down. Needed to remind him everything has a price and balance. That you couldn’t forget. That he had to—
—believe—
Hands twisting in his hair. “Stopstopstop.” He didn’t have to talk to them. Any of them. He’d done nothing wrong. A road at night. A light rain. A drunk driver straying across the double yellow line. Happens all the time. No explanation or blame.
He didn’t have to atone for not stopping—
For causing—
For wishing—
“Ridiculous.”
The phone cut off in mid-ring.
He reached for the tumbler and downed the last swallow of 21-Year-Old Macallan, enjoying the complex flavour burning down his throat and flaring in his nostrils. Standing, he stretched out the kinks in his back, neck, and shoulders as he headed for bed. He cleared his mind, vowing that the dream would not return this night.
On the walls, photos he’d taken to document the triumphs of his life hung in a methodical grid. Vacation photos showed the Grand Canyon, the Canadian Rockies, a beautiful sunset over a beach in Hawaii, the streets of Paris. Above the television, one panel of a diptych showed his MBA graduation picture, the other held a shot of an airport baggage carousel. Random, he always admitted to himself, but he imagined that in the photo was the woman he loved gathering her bags after a year of backpacking in Europe in the moment before he would drop to his knee and propose.
Moving into the marble-topped and copper-accented kitchen, he noticed light spilling from under the dining room door on the far side. He must have forgotten to extinguish the lights the last time he’d been in there—
—bet you wish—
The stink of rotting food.
Right index finger stroking the scar.
—you know what?—
A stupid fight. She’d put away four rum and Cokes. He’d been on his fifth beer. Moving his equipment off the table. She’d started it. About money. Then what his mom might say when she came for dinner. Even imitated her (“Went to see Charlotte’s newest granddaughter last week.”) last time she’d been over. So he’d fired back. Told her he wanted kids. It had exploded—
—Bet you wish I was gone and that flaky bitch would come back! Would that make you happy?—
—You know what? It would!—
Something shattered. A feeling, an emotion. Like the air between them rippled for an instant. His heart trembled, his lungs deflated.
He didn’t hear what she said next. Didn’t seem like she felt it. Just grabbed her keys and said something about going to her sister’s.
He’d let her go. Let her have her snit. She’d driven hammered before. No big deal. He’d flopped down in front of the TV.
Must have fallen asleep because the phone woke him.
Then a mad rush to the hospital.
The scar.
Remembering what he’d said—
And yet none of that happened, Brian reminded himself. An intense dream, to be sure, but still a dream. One he promised himself would not disrupt the sleep he required in order to be clearheaded for tomorrow’s meeting. He crossed his immaculate kitchen to the dining room and something he could not make out in the darkness whispered under his feet. He mentally noted to have the maid attend to that in the morning as he opened the dining room door, reached for the light switch—
Photographs filled the room. Scattered across the small dining room table, spilling onto the floor. Piles covered plates and filled bowls. Photos of people and places. Like an entire life lay documented.
His life.
Brian shoved pictures of him holding Sam, his friend Jerry’s son—huge smile on Brian’s face, Sam only a few days old—off the nearest chair. He sat. Scooped up a handful of photos—shots of his parents, shot from high school.
Then photos of Janice—
—that flaky bitch—
—he’d thrown away years ago.
He dropped them to the floor. They faded like memories of a bad dream.
The corner of a handwritten letter stuck out from under some pictures. He shoved the photos aside—taken while trying to build a portfolio—and grabbed the sheet, yellow with age. Looping cursive talked about Brian’s last letter—their future together, marriage, kids. She told him she was in this for the long haul. Except she didn’t know about children. She knew Brian’s feelings, but couldn’t see herself as a mom. But they could talk about this when she got back from backpacking in Europe.
He let the letter drop. And it, too, was gone. Brian grabbed more pictures. These were of John. Ones the detective let him see. In a dozen shots, his son grew from infant to toddler to little boy.
Tears came instantly.
His son. His dead son.
He put his head down on the table. Wept . . .
—Did you know the driver of the other car?—
“Yes, goddamn it!” He sat up too quickly. Everything spun. He shut his eyes.
When the world had righted itself, he let them open. He held the staff photo of Camp McDonald. He’d thrown it away years ago. All the photos from that summer. The negatives, too. Didn’t want the reminder.
&nbs
p; His twenty-year-old self stood at the right end of the back row, Janice near the centre of the front. Twenty-eight guys and thirty-one girls between eighteen and twenty-three, lined up in front of the recreation hall. All smiles. Pretending to be upstanding role models. Great experience for a resume to demonstrate how well-rounded one was.
They’d met the day the picture was taken. Talking, flirting. She’d laughed at his jokes, touching his arm. The way she cocked her head and looked at him from the corner of her eye made him hornier than any girl ever had. Turned out they went to the same university but had never met.
His right hand drifted toward his left palm. Brian curled it into a fist.
She was into folk music and leftist politics. Went to open-mic poetry nights and feminist groups meetings. Had no interest in a career, no long-term goals. She had no family—parents dead, no siblings, cousins, aunts or uncles—so nothing to tie her down. The perfect—
—balance—
—counterpoint to his structured, career-focused life.
And she’d been the one to push him to pursue photography. He’d always had an interest. Nothing serious. Nothing he could make a living doing. But it was enough for the camp director to let him take the photo. (Set the timer and run like hell.) But she’d pressed him. Urged him to get creative.
By September, they’d been living off-campus in a crap-hole apartment. His growing collection of photography equipment, which he really couldn’t afford, fought for space with her collection of poetry books. His course notes got mixed up with her pamphlets. But it had been full-blown, drive-you-crazy love.
Then the next summer. Just after graduation. He’d always planned on an MBA. But as his portfolio grew, his grades had slipped. He’d been wait-listed at his safety school, rejected by the others. He’d have to reapply. Maybe take a few classes. Get his grades up.
What about us? Janice had asked.
He hadn’t understood the question. They were fine. But he had a future to plan.
When Janice said she was going to Vancouver, he’d been crushed. Staying with friends, she’d said. Only a few months. Be back in September.
