Disclose

by Joelle Charbonneau

  Atlas gasps with pain and the moment shatters into a thousand tiny shards of reality. Atlas rubs his arm where the Marshals shot him weeks ago.

  I’ll never forget that moment. The bullet piercing him. Atlas launching himself into Lake Michigan to convince the Marshalls he was dead.

  Somehow he had the strength to swim through the bone-chilling water and get back to the Stewards’ meeting point. He was lucky—the bullet passed clean through the arm. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a close call—and a sign of what could come for any of us.

  “Did you reinjure it?” I ask.

  Atlas shakes his head. “I had a close call yesterday and strained a muscle. No big deal.”

  “What kind of close call?” For the first time, I notice the purple shadow of a bruise on Atlas’s jaw.

  “The Marshals found one of the old Stewards’ stations. There were two Stewards who didn’t make it to the Lyceum in time for the lockdown hiding there. I could only get one of them away from the Marshals. The other . . .” A haunting emptiness fills Atlas’s eyes. “I was going to follow them to wherever they took her, but she used the deadman’s switch before they could put her in the car.”

  The ever-present worry that his father might have taken that same life-ending step shines in Atlas’s eyes.

  “We’ll find your father and Isaac,” I say, picking up my fallen bag and checking to make sure the plastic case inside escaped damage.

  “Is that the tracker we—”

  “Yeah.” I let out a relieved sigh and tuck it back into the bag. “Dewey is going to run some tests and make sure it’s ready to go.”

  “I thought I found the Unity Center. That’s why I was out of touch longer than planned,” Atlas explains. “Only it was a dead end. The City Pride Department started renovations on the site two months ago. The guy at the hot dog stand across the street said the building had been empty for a few months before construction began.”

  Which meant that the Marshals’ holding facility had been closed and the City Pride Department had begun erasing any sign of their work long before Atlas’s father went missing.

  I used to dream about working for the City Pride Department—just like my mother. City Pride dedicates government resources to making every part of a city beautiful, nationwide. It originated from a pilot program in Chicago based on the theory that an attractive place to live would create a sense of pride for residents in the community, and a desire to keep the neighborhood both attractive and safe. Everyone cheered when crime plummeted in the Chicago neighborhoods where the program had been implemented. Streets that had been neglected for years were brought to life by government artists and designers. Suddenly the area that had once been considered the most dangerous in the country was an example of how to make a city both beautiful and safe.

  For years, I envied my mother for the positive impact her art had on the world. I was thrilled when she encouraged my own artistic inclinations and couldn’t understand why she suddenly told me I should shift my future dreams to something less demanding. I thought she felt I wasn’t good enough. Now I know it was because she had found out the truth.

  It wasn’t that I wasn’t good enough. Still, after everything I know, I have to consciously remind myself of that fact.

  “How about the Stewards you visited?” I ask.

  “I found nine.” Atlas stops walking. “None of them are willing to work with us. At least not yet.”

  My heart sinks. “None of them?”

  “They still believe in the cause, but . . . they heard about what happened. On the pier. They don’t want to put themselves in that kind of danger until they know for certain we can make a difference.”

  My fault. I pushed them to move forward. I convinced them that sharing the truth would change everything. I was wrong. If I were them, I wouldn’t want to work with me, either.

  “How did you find me?” I ask as we walk to the end of the block.

  “Dewey.” Atlas gives me a ghost of a smile. “He gave me the training route you were taking. He’d have something to say about you stopping to admire your work.”

  “Dewey has something to say about everything.”

  “He also said Stef and her friends made contact.”

  “I’m meeting with them after I drop off Dewey’s package and change clothes,” I say.

  “Well, then we’d better get moving.” Atlas drops my hand. He smiles, but there is frustration and worry behind his eyes as he says, “I bet you’re still not fast enough to beat me back to Dewey’s place.”

  Hitching my bag onto my shoulder, I let the conversation about the future fade and do the only thing I can do—I take Atlas up on his bet and run.

  Three

  Atlas wins, but only by a half block.

  I’m getting stronger, I think as I tug on a forest-green T-shirt and a pair of jeans.

  Atlas holds out a beat-up blue baseball cap as I come down the stairs. “Ready?” he asks.

  I take the hat, run my thumb over the edge of the repair I recently did on the lining, and nod.

  Dewey steps out of the shadows of the living room with several CTA cards. I place my “Merriam” card on the small entryway table so I don’t mistakenly use it, and take the ones offered by Dewey.

  “Change the cards you use with every stop and—”

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” I finish the thought, knowing that if I do anything stupid, it will be Mrs. Webster and Rose who pay for my mistake.

  “Good advice, but not what I was going to say.” Dewey puts his hand on my shoulder and looks into my eyes. “Before you so rudely interrupted me, I was going to remind you of James Thomson’s words. ‘More firm and sure the hand of courage strikes, when it obeys the watchful eye of caution.’ Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  I want to say yes, but if I do I am pretty certain Dewey will call my bluff. “Not even a little bit,” I admit.

  Dewey smirks. “Rest assured we will discuss that deficiency.” He shifts his hat lower on his forehead and turns to Atlas. “I shouldn’t have to tell you to be careful, but as Meri has demonstrated, just because I understand something doesn’t mean someone else will.” With that he disappears up the stairs.

  “I’ll meet you on the corner by Wrigley Field,” Atlas says. When I nod, he goes to the back door to avoid notice by anyone who might be on the street. I tuck my hair under the battered baseball cap, shove Dewey’s new CTA cards into my pocket, and step onto the front porch.

  The last vestiges of sunlight have faded into the horizon, leaving behind a chill that whispers over the night air. I walk quickly down the quiet street and turn onto the next perfectly maintained, tree-lined block, moving from the quiet neighborhood into the one bustling with pedestrians and cars and eventually vendors selling royal blue, red, and white T-shirts and hats. Organ music and cheers drift on the breeze as Wrigley Field rises in the distance.

  The crowd inside the stadium is roaring when I reach the corner closest to the historic lipstick-red with white lettering sign that my father made Mom and me pose beneath years ago. My father used to have the picture displayed on a screen that sat at the edge of his office desk. When he looked up from his work, he could see the green steel stadium and its memorable sign in the background with Mom and me grinning like idiots. Someone must have removed the screen with that photo from his office. Who knows what happened to it.

  Since Atlas isn’t here yet, I stare up at the sign and wonder—is Dad watching the game right now from wherever the Stewards took him to hide? If so, is he thinking of mom and me and our picture? Or has he turned his back on that memory the way he walked away from me?

  “You okay?” Atlas appears at my side and I shake off the cobweb of emotions.

  “I’m fine,” I say, even though I’m not sure I am. I never heard Atlas approach. Never saw him coming. If he had been a Marshal . . . “We should get moving.”

  Atlas doesn’t ask the questions I can see in his eyes, which is good because I�
�m not sure I have answers. It’s easier for us to focus on making our way to the L. We’ll get off at the next stop, and take the bus three more stops away—using a different CTA card at every one so anyone looking at transit card travel patterns can’t trace us back to Dewey’s safe house.

  Finally, we climb off the final bus and hurry down the quiet block toward the destination I was given. We pass a small coffeehouse whose windows glow with an inviting warmth. I spot a man in jeans, a white button-down shirt, and a brown dress coat standing next to a silver-and-ruby-red bench at the end of the block.

  Atlas takes my hand and gives a deliberate nod.

  Marshal.

  I can’t make out the man’s shoes from here, but I don’t doubt Atlas’s instinct. Hand in hand, we cross to the other side of the street. Then we walk at an agonizingly slow pace along the sidewalk that hums with life while the last gasps of dim sunlight give way to the midnight blue of night. When we reach the next block, Atlas looks up at the public screen that is playing a popular game show. In it, contestants have to perform impossible and often embarrassing or disgusting stunts in front of their former significant others in order to win cash and possibly a second chance at love. Almost everyone I know watches or has applied to be on the show.

  I used to think people who applied were crazy, since I never found anything remotely interesting about a guy smearing himself in honey and standing in the center of a bunch of beehives to prove his ex should give him a second chance. After living with Dewey, I know this kind of show is on-air for a reason. “Bread and circuses” is what Dewey called it—giving a sense of security through everyday essentials like food and at the same time providing outrageous entertainment to distract the mind.

  I guess if people are busy passionately debating whether Jane should have taken back the guy smeared with honey, or if she was a witch for sending him away, they won’t think too hard about the world around them. They’re too distracted to question. A kind of conditioning for the masses.

  The studio audience’s bubbly laughter grates on my nerves even as its mesmerizing effect on those watching on the public screens gives us an opportunity to make sure we haven’t captured unwanted interest.

  I chance a glance back toward the coffee shop. The Marshal scans the area, then spots a woman in high heels and a tight black dress. He smiles when she waves. The two kiss while we pretend to watch the woman on the screen dissolve into tears after watching her ex get stung by a dozen bees. Once the Marshal and his date head off into the night we continue down the block.

  I check the time when we arrive on the street of our meeting place; the storefront with a bright sunflower on the sign is near the end of the block. The store has already closed for the night.

  Just weeks ago, Atlas directed us to take refuge inside this shop. We were being chased by the Marshals for saving the very girl I’m meeting tonight—a girl the government was trying to make disappear.

  The off-white glow of the streetlamps and the illumination from the still-open restaurants cause the shadows to retreat from the sidewalk. No other Marshals are in sight, but just because we don’t see them doesn’t mean they, or others, aren’t nearby—watching. We won’t be able to hang here for very long without drawing attention.

  “Do you see her?” Atlas asks.

  I shake my head and walk up to the bright blue-and-yellow painted doorway, which currently stands empty. The other businesses housed in the same building are also closed.

  “Maybe she got cold feet?” Atlas frowns. “There are a lot more Marshals on the streets since we last saw her. That might be giving her and her friends second thoughts.”

  My stomach ties into a knot even as I insist, “She said she would be here.”

  “I also said you were supposed to come alone.”

  Atlas and I spin toward the clipped words. A tall, lanky figure with a black baseball hat pulled low over her forehead appears. She yanks off the cap and shakes out the long dark hair I recall from our brief but terrifying first meeting.

  Then she turns toward Atlas. “You weren’t invited to this party.”

  “I invited him,” I say. “He’s the reason you’re standing here now instead of in the hands of the Marshals.”

  “That’s not exactly the way I remember it.” Stef shrugs. “And I’m not objecting to his presence. I’m just surprised that he’s here at all.” She looks back at Atlas. “Rumor has it the Stewards have gone into hiding. We haven’t seen any signs of your friends since all those books and papers were handed out. And you’re right.” She gives Atlas a wide, slightly gap-toothed smile. “My friends are having second thoughts. You being late won’t help convince them otherwise.”

  “There was a Marshal . . .”

  “Save it for the others.” Stef checks her watch and says, “Let’s go.”

  Stef disappears around the building and Atlas and I have to hurry to keep up as we go down the alley we all traveled once before, across the street, through the park, and finally into a residential block. Stef keeps the pace brisk as we pass tall two- and three-story brick houses all guarded by perfectly pruned bushes of evergreens, which alternate in height. Stef frowns at her watch again.

  “What’s the big deal?” I ask. “We were only a few minutes late.” Nine, to be exact.

  Stef glances at me, but doesn’t slow. “For some of the people you’re meeting, a few minutes means the difference between being part of the action, or taken out of commission for a week or more. Seeing the symbol on the screens today convinced them you were serious. They’re willing to listen, but if we’re not there soon, they won’t stick around and wait.”

  We move on to the next block filled with bungalows that are painted in shades of yellows and blues that glow in the moonlight.

  “If time’s a factor, why tell us to come here? Why not give us the real location of the meeting?”

  Stef smirks. “Like you and your friend here would tell me the exact location of wherever the Stewards hang out? This way.” She trots down the sidewalk of a two-story white house trimmed with yellow and blue—windows completely darkened—and heads to the gate that leads to the backyard. She glances back at the street, pauses for several heartbeats, then says, “I swore they could trust you. Don’t make me a liar.”

  She grabs hold of the fence, places her foot in one of the chain-link sections, and climbs. Atlas grins as Stef awkwardly swings her leg over the top and eases herself to the other side. I return his smile. We both take several steps back. He nods and I race toward the fence first, judging the distance and the height the way he instructed. When I am about two feet from the barrier, I inhale and leap up and catch the top of the fence with my hands and stick one foot in the links over halfway up. Without pausing so I don’t kill my momentum, I use my foot and arms to push myself up and over the fence. I land with an oof on the other side.

  I have to take two steps forward to regain my balance. Within seconds, Atlas sticks his own landing.

  Stef gives us a long look. If she’s impressed, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she turns and walks along a stone path through a garden of flowers toward the back door of the house. She raps three times. There is a scuffling noise followed by two knocks. Stef knocks one more time and the door swings open. She jerks her head and we follow her inside a narrow laundry room with a door to our left that empties into a dimly lit kitchen. Another well-lit entryway with a set of stairs leads downward.

  A stocky young man is there—maybe Atlas’s age or a year older—with a sharp chin, deep brown skin, and narrow glasses. He crosses his arms over his chest and blocks the steps. “You didn’t say there would be two.”

  “I didn’t say there wouldn’t be,” Stef says sharply. “Are the others still here?”

  “Most of them,” the guy says, not moving from the doorway. A line of diamond studs in his right ear twinkle as they catch the light. “Jake and Chris left. Joy and her cousin are going to have to head out in a few minutes. It was hard for any of them to get away
tonight. A lot aren’t sure the risk was worth it.” The guy shifts his attention to me. “Stef says you saved her from the Marshals. They must have been punier than the ones I’ve seen.”

  Atlas stiffens. I smile. The words aren’t the same as those spoken by Dewey on our first meeting, but their purpose is similar. “Are you trying to insult me?” I ask sweetly.

  The guy’s dark eyes narrow behind his metal frames. “I am if it’s working.” He steps out of the way and performs an arm flourish toward the steps.

  “You’re going to have to work a whole lot harder,” I say as Stef walks past him and down the stairs. “I’m pretty sure I’ve been insulted by the best.”

  He gives me a slightly crooked smile. “I’m Ari. You’d better get down there or you’ll lose your audience to curfew.”

  I glance at my watch. We still have several hours before the mandatory overnight road curfew, which makes me think some of our audience must have come from a distance if they are worried about making it home.

  The government claimed the curfew—which prohibited driving between the hours of midnight and five—was put into place because so many crimes were committed during that time of the night. Once crime was no longer an issue, the curfew remained to allow the City Pride Department to make road repairs without threat of creating traffic jams.

  Before learning the word “verify,” I believed the curfew contributed to the safety and prosperity of the city. Now . . . I’m not sure what I believe. Maybe once it was about safety. Now, I suspect the rule provides cover for the moving of people and things under the radar.

  Atlas’s father? Rose’s brother? They might already be miles away. We won’t be able to find either of them unless others around the country understand what is happening—what has been taken—without them even being aware.

  Which is why I’m here.

  I head down the brightly lit, unfinished, and slightly unevenly spaced steps. Voices float up from below as Atlas’s footsteps sound behind me. My nerves stretch taut.