Shatter Point

by Jeff Altabef

  Not everyone in the government wanted to make the cure widely available. Some wanted to use it to reduce the population, dispensing it only to those considered worthy. Charles, as his first act as Secretary of Domestic Priorities, had persuaded the administration to release the vaccine to everyone. The vaccine’s release, which would save millions of lives, had been a pre-condition for him to take the job. Not many people knew about that argument, and he was certainly not going to mention it here.

  “The vaccine will be widely distributed within the month. We’ll disseminate it throughout Westchester, but that’s only a start. There are other things we can do immediately. The food distribution effort will be increased. There’s too much waste and greed and not enough food for dissemination. I’ve received clearance to change that right away.”

  Gabriel spoke, his baritone voice hot and angry. “You think you can buy us with trinkets! You’ve been starving these people for a decade!”

  “You’re right.” Charles clasped his hands together. “These things are nothing but a sign of my good faith. There’s much more work to be done—important things like jobs, education, healthcare, political power—but we start with the basics and go from there. We can make the changes nonviolently if we work together—if we work together.”

  Moses leaned forward, and flecks of gray burned brightly against the blue swirls in his eyes. “I don’t doubt your sincerity, but there are those in the administration that view us as animals. We’re no longer human beings to them, merely beasts of burden they throw away after using us up.”

  Charles knew they were right, but he needed to convince them of the possibility of change, something he believed in himself. “My influence with the president is increasing. We are making progress, and the people I represent are influential. They want change. If we coordinate our efforts, then we’ll see real progress that will improve millions of lives without bloodshed. If you act independently and widespread violence erupts, then we can’t help. My powerful friends will run for cover. Thousands of lives will be wasted, and the results will be much harder to predict.”

  Gabriel leaned closer to Moses and they exchanged a short private conversation he couldn’t hear.

  Gabriel straightened and said, “We’re no longer concerned about the president, but his heir—Peter Perfect, as your media has dubbed him—seriously worries us.”

  “He’s done some good,” Charles said. “He’s initiated the Star program, which will benefit exceptional children and give them a start at newly created magnate schools.”

  “The Star program is just another way to steal the best and brightest from the ghettos,” Moses spat angrily. “Do you know what we call him?”

  Charles shook his head.

  “We call him the Razor. If you didn’t know any better, a straight blade is aesthetically pleasing. It looks harmless until you find out its true nature—until it cuts you. We understand that he ordered the military sweep in the Detroit and Midwest Ghettos. If he comes into power, things will accelerate. We have good reason to distrust him.”

  The Originalist political party ruled the country with an iron fist, having swept into power under a platform of lower taxes, reduced government, and increased personal liberty. Once elected, the party abused their power to support the wealthy class that had financed them, and subsequently changed enough voting rules that no one could realistically oppose them. The vice president was the only candidate seeking the nomination, and once the Originalists selected him, he would run for President without opposition.

  “The election is months away. I’m just now becoming acquainted with him. We have time before then to work together, so I propose that we build our relationship and see where it takes us. We share the same goals, and with us rowing the boat in the same direction we can achieve them.” Charles smiled with fake confidence. “To see the future, we need to remember the past. Our country was once great for everyone. I know we will restore that greatness again.”

  “Winston Churchill was a favorite of mine also.” Gabriel squeezed Moses’s shoulder.

  Moses stood. “We need to discuss your proposal. We cannot speak for all ghettos, as our influence is limited, but we have friends across the country. We’ll be in touch through our mutual friend.”

  Charles reached out his hand.

  Moses clasped it in both of his for a long moment, as he had when they first met. “Thank you for meeting us, Mr. Secretary.”

  ***

  Gabriel turned toward Moses. “So, can we trust him?”

  “Yes. He’s sincere in what he says. Who is Winston Churchill?”

  “You need to read more history. He was England’s prime minister during World War II, but Sheppard changed the quote. He actually said, ‘The farther backward you can look, the farther forward you are likely to see.’”

  Moses shrugged.

  Gabriel paced around the library, sweeping his hands across the book spines. “He’s an intriguing person. He could help us, with his powerful friends, but this could backfire on us big time.”

  “Have I ever steered you wrong before?”

  “No, Moses. I’m sure your impression is correct that he’s sincere, but we can’t be beholden to men like Charles Sheppard. Our power comes from our people and their trust in us. We need to be careful. If word leaks out that we’re cooperating with powerful rich men....” Gabriel didn’t need to finish the statement.

  Moses tossed the pomegranate in the air. “You’re the smart one. You’ve always made the decisions, but I have a strong feeling about the Miracle of the Pennsylvania Pomegranate. He’s going to prove useful. You should listen to me. I know it.”

  “I’ve learned my lesson the hard way, Moses. I still hate myself for what happened to Izzy. I should have listened to you then. I should never have let her leave that day. I was a fool and you lost your sister.” Gabriel leaned heavily on the edge of the desk. Some wounds never healed.

  Moses touched him on the shoulder. “I don’t blame you, and I’m sure Izzy didn’t either.”

  “I still wake up every morning expecting to see her next to me. I hope we are doing the right thing. Izzy would know what to do. She had the vision.”

  “I’m sure she’d be impressed with what you’ve accomplished. She wanted only for us to fight for fairness. ‘Every day is a new chance to make the hard choice and do what’s right.’ She told us that all the time.”

  “I know, but she knew what was right. What should we do about Sheppard? I will never ignore your premonitions again, but what can he do about Vice President Peter Perfect? I don’t see how he can achieve enough before the election. Once Mr. Perfect is sworn in as the next president, we’ll have to act. Our counterparts across the country are already making plans. Guns are flooding into the country and violence is increasing.”

  Moses shrugged. “We still have some time.”

  “Do you know why I love history books?”

  “You hate surprises?” Moses grinned.

  “Yes and no. History books contain every worthwhile idea and stupid scheme of humankind. Every great society falls for the same reasons: greed, corruption, power concentrated in too few, economic disparity. Humankind is too stupid to realize it, and we repeat the same mistakes over again. I hope it’s not too late for us.”

  Tom stared at the neatly arranged piles of paper—three straight rows, five deep, letters on top, photographs hidden underneath—and clenched his body.

  How did Mom keep this secret for so long? I should have known about this. She must have left clues.

  “These are only some of the letters?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  Aunt Jackie nodded. “Maggie received one letter every year starting twenty years ago. I only have fifteen letters plus the original note and drawing. She wouldn’t show me the others.” She leaned back in her chair. “She dated each letter. The last one I have was sent five years ago. The pictures become progressively worse and more numerous each year. There are also many of you two, always wi
th a circle drawn over the face like a target at a shooting range.”

  “We need to start with this first one.” Tom lifted the note off the table. “It’s not really a letter, just a note to Mom and a drawing of a face. The drawing is too simple to reveal much, but at least we know he has blue eyes. I think it’s fair to assume that Mom sketched the face.”

  “Cooper never mailed the first note. Maggie met this monster at one of the places where her parents worked and he left that note for her. The letters and the photos started coming years later. She never dated that first one.”

  Aunt Jackie’s face was drawn and her body heavy. She looked away from her nephews. “I’ve spent too much time studying the letters and pictures over the years to study them now. I’ve done the best I could, but I’ve never found any useful clues. I’ve even given each one a name and a personality. They haunt my dreams, as they did Maggie’s. I just wish she would’ve given me more information to work with. I guess she was too scared and had lived too long as a victim.”

  Jack lifted a picture from behind one of the more recent letters. “Who could do something like this?” His face twisted sourly.

  The young woman in the photograph lay naked in a field of grass, her arms positioned above her head as if signaling a touchdown. Her open eyes and mouth emitted an eternal silent scream. Her legs were spread wide and bent outward awkwardly at the knees, her entire torso covered with bruises, and her chest sliced open to reveal a grizzly peek inside. A bluish-purple bruise around her neck was shaped like a man’s hands. Bright red lipstick colored her lips, and a pink ribbon held her hair in pigtails. All the girls in the pictures were positioned the same way. All had red lipstick and wore pink ribbons.

  Tom moved next to his brother. “This woman suffered.” He pointed to the photograph in Jack’s hand. “The wounds on her arms look like they had started healing.”

  Jack slipped the picture back into its original place and turned away from the letters and the photographs of death. “There are twenty-three photos. The women look as if they could be sisters. They all have the same hair, skin color, size, and body type.”

  “They’re all young versions of Mom,” Tom said.

  Aunt Jackie sighed. “Yes, Tom, every year this monster chose a substitute for Maggie. Each letter talks about his feelings for your mom and how these girls weren’t as good as her. How she should realize that she was meant to be his and run away with him. It’s horrifying.”

  Aunt Jackie’s eyes blazed sharp and angry and dangerous. Tom had never seen her like that before. Well, maybe that one time when Jack drew on the pictures in her scrapbook.

  ***

  Tom read all the letters thoroughly and forced himself to study the photos and take in as much detail as possible. At least he could analyze them—each letter written with the same precise handwriting, signed with the same flourish, and penned on the same expensive stock paper with a faint watermark. All the letters except the first one, which was written on different paper.

  He kept going back to the first note, lifting it close to his face and examining every inch of it, looking for something new, wondering what he was missing.

  “Mom never told anyone else about Cooper? Not even Dad?” Jack asked.

  Aunt Jackie slouched, her voice tired. “No. She was too afraid Cooper would take you away from her. Each letter makes it clear that he had her under surveillance, and the pictures proved it. Do you remember your father’s temper?”

  Jack nodded.

  “She was certain he would do something rash and this devil would take you all away from her. After Paul died, she worried even more. The thought of losing one of you was too much for her to risk.” She took another sip of coffee—her third cup, each stronger than the last.

  Tom shook his head. “She must know who this pervert is. Surely she gave you some hints, right?”

  She shrugged. “I tried hundreds of time, but she wouldn’t tell me. I could tell he was someone important and powerful, but she gave me nothing.”

  “I don’t see how we’re going to find him from these.” Jack waved at the letters. “They’re old, so there won’t be any fingerprints, and there are no clues. Nothing indicates who wrote them or where he lived when he did.” He glanced at his brother for hope. Desperation filled his eyes.

  Tom noticed a tiny smudge on the first note that he had missed before, and lifted it toward the light. “Not so fast! There’s some type of design on the bottom of the first note.”

  He dropped the note on the table, grabbed two clear glasses from the kitchen cabinet, filled one with water, and returned with a cagey smile on his face.

  “What are you doing?” Jack looked at him as if he had two heads and one spun in circles.

  “You’ll see.” He dripped three drops of water into the bottom of the empty glass and brought it over the smudge. “The water, glass, and light act as a magnifying glass. Check this out, Jack. At the bottom of the page is a logo of some kind. It looks like a building with letters inside.”

  Aunt Jackie took a turn peering through the homemade magnifying glass, squinting at the image. “Where exactly is the logo?”

  Tom shifted the note so she could see it.

  “Oh, I’ve got it now. Son of a bitch, there is something there. I can’t believe I’ve missed it for all these years. I thought it was just a smudge.” She put down the glass and started gathering up the notes and photographs from the floor.

  Jack and Tom glared at her.

  “What’re you doing?” Jack asked.

  She slipped the papers back into the original folder. “We’re going to need help to figure this out. Let’s go find Rachel.”

  Tom’s mouth dropped open.

  Jack arched his eyebrows. “You know about the Fourteenth Colony?”

  “Of course I do. Just because I’m old doesn’t mean that I don’t know what’s going on. We go way back. I introduced her to your mother.”

  Tom stretched out his hand. “Just give us the file and we’ll handle this. We’ll go see her.”

  She snapped back the file and jammed it into her bag. “You’ll never take it from me. I’m driving.” She hoisted the bag over her shoulder and marched toward the front door, leaving her two nephews in her wake.

  The brothers shared a look, and Jack moaned. “I can’t believe this.”

  “Come on, we don’t have all day! Jack can sit in the back!”

  Tom grinned. He had found a clue, and one clue meant there would be more.

  Terry sat in the chair next to the bed and fidgeted, letting a half-sigh, half-scowl slip out under his breath. He watched Maggie sleep under the effects of a heavy sedative and shook his head. He would never have selected this Maggie. She was too old.

  He was in charge of selecting Maggies for Cooper. The Peterson twins handled the surveillance work and the actual snatching, but he made the selection. He liked that role—deciding life and death. He didn’t believe in God or any common notion of a deity, but each time he selected the next Maggie, he felt all-powerful—as he assumed God would feel, if He existed.

  He hadn’t selected this Maggie. He’d been robbed of a prized privilege, and now he was stuck with her.

  She was the original Maggie, and that made her special to Cooper. Still, she was all wrong—too old, too thin, her hair too short, her skin color two shades too white. He was something of an expert on Maggies, and this one would never have passed his high standards.

  He sighed. A small, caramel-colored mole marred Maggie’s neck. Most people might have described it as adding texture and beauty to her throat. He hated it. None of his Maggies would have borne such a blemish.

  He reached over, pressed his hands against her throat, and squeezed; not particularly hard at first, but he increased the pressure without thinking about it. When her face turned red and her body squirmed, he released her, relieved he hadn’t left a mark behind. He would have had a heck of a time explaining that to Cooper. That wasn’t his role.

  Cooper
killed every Maggie by strangulation. Yes, he would cut them before he strangled them. He liked causing pain. Sometimes he let Terry do some of the destruction, but in the end, Cooper always strangled them. He inched his face close to theirs and choked the life out of them, often while weeping with joy.

  Terry wanted his turn. He wanted to weep with joy.

  ***

  What if I’ve been looking at this problem the wrong way? What if there’s no inhibitor for the drug in Lassie’s system, but something else is causing her brain to stay in equilibrium?

  Darian doodled in his journal, “Look to the brain.”

  When George strolled into the lab, he pushed the journal to the side. “Have you loaded the latest data into the computer so we can run the simulation?”

  “Everything’s inputted. We should have the answer in a few hours.”

  Darian glanced at the note he had written. Yes, he needed to change tracks. He needed to look to the brain. The answer had to be locked in the brain.

  He grabbed an old textbook and flipped open to the pages on brain diseases.

  The answer is in here, but does Jack have enough time left for me to find it?

  Tom and Jack followed Aunt Jackie into the bright, sweltering August sunlight.

  Jack groaned and pointed to the old, beaten down silver Ford parked across the street. “I guess we’re taking the Silver Bullet.” He’d given the car that nickname as a joke seven years ago. It wasn’t fast then.

  Aunt Jackie took short, energetic strides. Her bag hung low off her shoulder and threatened to scrape across the pavement.

  Tom hated to cram into Aunt Jackie’s car, but they didn’t have one of their own, so they took her car whenever they needed to travel together. Despite its four doors, he always felt squeezed whenever he had to climb into the back seat. His head hit the roof and his knees bumped against the front seat.

  This time he sat in the front while Jack stretched out in the back by himself.

  He usually got along well with Jack, but being brothers, fighting was coded in their DNA. Lock them in a cramped space and they’d start to argue—as predictable as water running down hill. Usually, they began to push each other. Jack would squeeze his leg in a “horse bite,” and Tom would retaliate with a foot stomp. Maggie would yell at them from the front seat within a few minutes.