by A. M. Geever
Miranda strained to see beyond the tinted windows as the SUV stopped. A moment later the doors on either side of Miranda and Connor opened. Rough hands hauled her out and cut the restraints on her ankles. She looked at the building before her, dumbfounded.
They were in front of the Jesuit Residence.
Miranda and Connor were propelled through the foyer and down the hall by Mario’s armed goons so quickly that Miranda did not have time to feel humiliated by the shocked stares of the people they passed. They shoved her through the chapel doors. The world was spinning again. Before she could steady herself, Walter and Doug rushed in.
“God save us, Mario! Was this really necessary?” Walter cried, shock plain on his face. He hurried over to Miranda and unfastened the gag and wrist restraints, then handed her a hanky to dry her face.
“It was,” Mario answered, leaning against a pew. He winced and cradled his side. “I think she cracked a rib.”
“What the hell is he doing here?” Miranda blurted as she spit out the gag. She rubbed her wrists and looked around the room. “What is going on?”
Walter put his hands on her shoulders. “There are some things you don’t know, Miranda.”
“Well no fucking shit,” she said, shrugging Walter off.
The room got very quiet. The sinking feeling Miranda had had on the Expressway when she saw the first SUV returned.
“Mario’s been working with us,” Walter said.
Miranda started to laugh. It was too absurd. She looked from Walter to Mario and Doug, saw identical expressions on their faces. They all looked guilty.
“Mario’s been working with us to get the vaccine back. He’s been our man at GeneSys.”
Miranda stared at Walter. “What are you talking about? He betrayed you. He betrayed all of us.”
“He was always on our side, Miranda,” Walter said softly, his hazel eyes brimming with sympathy. “I am so very sorry, more than you can know, but he never betrayed us. He’s been on our side the whole time.”
The chapel was silent except for the rain battering the windows. Miranda stared at Walter, unable to comprehend his words. Her chest felt tight. Blood roared in her ears. A drop of water trickled down between her shoulder blades.
“I don’t know what he told you–”
“He’s always been on our side, Miranda. He didn’t betray anyone.”
Miranda shook her head. Why was Walter saying these things? She felt Delilah rub against her leg, whining in response to Miranda’s growing distress.
“That’s not true,” she insisted. Her voice wavered, and she began to shake. “If that were true, I would have known.”
“He couldn’t tell you, Miri, none of us could. It was safer if you thought—”
“It was safer?”
Miranda looked from Walter to Mario and abruptly realized what Walter was saying to her was true. The sorrow she saw on Mario’s face was real, and he had apologized to her, said that he missed her. It had not made any sense at the time, but if he had lied to her…
Comprehension—a white-hot spike—crashed through her skull. Mario had lied to her. They all had, every last one of them.
“I know you can never forgive me,” Mario said, voice hoarse, his relief at ending the charade beyond question. The flesh of his body seemed to sag against his skeleton. Relief radiated from him, dragging him down like intensified gravity.
It was his relief that did her in.
The jolt of impact traveled from knuckles to elbow to shoulder before Miranda realized she had crossed the room and thrown the punch. Mario staggered back.
“How could you do that to me?” she shouted. “How could you do that to me?”
She punched him again, and again, and again. Rage and betrayal blinded her vision. Doug’s strong hand caught her from behind and dragged her away, but not before he caught an elbow in the face for his trouble.
“You son of a bitch!” she hissed, twisting free of Doug’s grip. Her breath came in shuddering gasps. “You let me think—oh my God, you all let me think—”
“Miranda,” Walter said.
“What about me?” she whispered, eyes filling with tears as she backed away. “What about me, or don’t I count? You let me think he betrayed us, that everything was a lie. How can you say he didn’t betray anyone? He betrayed me, didn’t he? Didn’t he?”
Walter tried again. “If you’ll let me explain—”
Miranda bumped against the end of a pew. She reached blindly to steady herself and felt something wet and warm hit her arm. She touched her face as she reeled toward the chapel doors. It was wet, too.
“Miranda,” Walter called from behind her. “The Council is after you. I know you don’t want to hear anything I have to say, but there are things I need to tell you. You can’t go anywhere, not when you’re upset like this.”
Miranda turned back. “Now you need to tell me something, Father?”
She hurled the honorific like an epithet. She glimpsed her horrified reflection in one of the chapel windows, amazed that the hurricane raging inside her could not be seen.
Hold it together for a minute, just a minute don’t let them see, don’t let them see…
Connor’s face was pale and shocked. When she looked at him, a choked sob forced its way past her lips.
“Will you come with me?” she asked, hardly able to speak.
She had to escape. She didn’t know how to stop a hurricane and she couldn’t let them see.
Connor crossed the room, silent save for the echo of his footsteps and her barely contained weeping. When he reached her at the chapel doors, she fled.
25
Connor could not catch Miranda as she ran from the Jesuit Residence into the wet, inky night. She was headed for the Mission Church. He knew it before she darted up the steps and pulled on one of the massive doors. A few moments later, he stepped inside, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the murky interior. Her sobs echoed off the walls like forlorn prayers.
He couldn’t believe he had missed it, but how could he have known? She hated Emily’s husband so much she only visited if Mario was not there. The vicious riposting and malicious digs that she and Mario had traded at dinner, and Karen’s comment that he did not know the half of it. In hindsight, it was lit in neon, but there was no way he could have seen it. He hadn’t had enough pieces of the puzzle to fit together.
Connor wiped the rain from his face as he walked past the row of tapestry draped columns that demarcated the entryway from the sanctuary proper. In keeping with classical Mission style, the church had no fixed pews. Often the altar was set up against the far back wall, but at the moment it was in the center. Rows of sturdy wooden chairs surrounded it, utilizing an in-the-round style. Massive iron candelabras glowed, candlelight flickering off the stark white walls and golden decorations. The timbered ceiling was almost lost in the cavernous gloom, and the deep-set windows high along the walls stared out into the night like sightless eyes.
Miranda huddled on the floor in the aisle by the first row of chairs. Sobs racked her body. A few people milled nearby, not sure what to do. Connor waved the concerned onlookers away and knelt down beside her.
She wrapped her arms around his waist, her head and shoulders on his lap. He ran his hand over her soaked head, making sure to tuck imaginary strands of hair behind her ear. Her mother had smoothed her hair behind her ear when she was sick as a child. She told him that the first time she was stuck-in-bed sick her freshman year. Funny the things you remember, and when.
The familiar motion seemed to soothe her. Eventually she began to settle a little, sobs replaced by weeping.
“You loved him.”
She shuddered, and for a moment he thought she might begin to sob again. He slid his hand under the fingers of her right hand so he could get a look. The knuckles were scuffed and scratched and beginning to swell.
“We should get some ice for your hand.”
She shook her head and mumbled.
“I c
an’t hear you, Miri.”
Miranda’s tremulous voice was barely audible. “God is punishing me, I know He is.”
“Miranda… It doesn’t work like that.”
“He’s punishing me, He is,” she insisted. She began to cry harder. “He wasn’t free. I was so, so selfish.”
“Look at me.”
Miranda shook her head. Connor burrowed his hand under her chin and raised her head. Tears ran unchecked down her face. Even though he held her chin, she tried to look away.
“Look at me,” he said again.
Slowly, she raised her eyes to his. The fear and self-loathing Connor saw in them tore at his heart.
“You must think I’m horrible,” she said, almost unintelligible through her tears. “I know you do. I’m the worst kind of— God’s been punishing me all this time and—”
“Stop it,” Connor said. “Stop right now. Do not put words in my mouth. I don’t care, Miranda. I love you whether you think you deserve it or not, and God loves you, too. God is not punishing you; that’s not how it works.” His voice softened. “I only care that he hurt you so much.”
Connor pulled her close and held her tight and rocked her like a baby. She wept with her face pressed against his chest. And then, finally, she surrendered. Her body relaxed and went limp.
“I can’t believe you have to see me like this. Crying over someone else, I mean,” she said. Tears that she quickly wiped away still leaked from the corners of her eyes.
Connor shrugged. “I was gone a long time. I never thought you were waiting for me.”
“That might have worked out better,” she muttered. She looked up at him, then straightened up, concerned. “Connor, your face… It’s all cut up.”
Connor touched his face. He felt small cuts on his left cheek and forehead. His fingers came back with red smears.
“There’s a big piece of glass in your cheek.” Miranda leaned over and pulled out a long, sharp sliver. Warm blood began to run down the side of his face. “Ah, Jesus, I should have left it alone. You’re going to need stitches.” She dug in her front jeans pocket and produced a handkerchief which she pressed against his face.
The squelch of wet footsteps echoed from the direction of the main doors. Doug walked toward them looking uncomfortable but resolved. When he saw the blood-stained handkerchief in Connor’s hand, he stopped short.
“She didn’t punch you, too?”
Connor swallowed his annoyance and shook his head.
Doug looked at Miranda. “We need to talk, Miri. I know you don’t want to hear anything I have to say, but things are going sideways. We need you.”
“Maybe you should have thought of that before,” Miranda said. She had her voice under control, but she still swiped at tears.
“That’s part of what I need to talk to you about,” Doug answered. The exuberant young priest looked more serious than Connor would have thought possible. “I don’t mean to sound like Walter, but this is more important than any one of us.”
From the look on her face, Connor was sure Miranda would hurl an insult, but she surprised him.
“It’s about the vaccine.”
“Yes,” Doug answered.
She gave a disgusted sigh. “Fine, whatever. I could give a shit, but fine.”
Doug looked at Connor expectantly. Ah. Apparently he was supposed to beat it.
Fuck that, Connor thought. Aloud he said, “Do you want me to stay?”
Miranda turned to look at him, misery stamped across her face. Seeing her like this was torture. I’ll kill that asshole if it’s the last thing I do, he vowed.
“It’s okay,” Miranda said tiredly. “You should get your face looked at.” She kissed him, then lingered, like she didn’t want him to go. “Thank you.”
“You silly,” he said, his voice pitched low for her ears alone. “I’d do anything for you.”
“I know.”
Her cornflower blue eyes, beautiful despite being red and puffy, regarded him gratefully for a moment.
Connor grasped Miranda’s hand as he stood. “I’ll be just outside if you need me.”
“No. Go to the Jesuit Residence and get someone to stitch your face. I’ll be there soon.”
She gave his hand a squeeze. Connor saw hints of a steely strength in her eyes, behind the brave face she had begun to put on like armor.
She still cares about Mario that’s for fucking sure, Connor thought as he walked away. He pushed the main door of the church open. A blast of cold, wet air hit him in the face.
She might even still love him, but I’m damned if I’ll let her go without a fight.
26
Doug spun the chair across the aisle backward and straddled it to sit opposite her. He looked like there was no power on Earth that could compel him to sit within striking distance.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am that we lied to you, Miri.”
Miranda looked at Doug sidelong, unable to face him directly. She looked at her friend and felt like she did not know him anymore. She could also see that he meant what he said. The cheekbone she had inadvertently elbowed sported a puffy red splotch with a dark bruise forming at its center. His blue eyes brimmed with remorse.
“That’s generous of you.”
“I am sorry, Miranda. We all are. It was a terrible thing that we did to you.”
“And now that you’ve apologized, everything’s hunky-dory. Fuck you.”
“Of course it isn’t.” Doug took a deep breath. “When the fighting began after the Council reneged on the vaccine, there was no way we could defeat them. We didn’t have enough leverage, even with the farms and their failed harvest. They had the police, we didn’t. The only thing we had was influence on the people who were rioting. If the riots had continued, we might have lost everything. Some of the people fighting the police were planning to firebomb the lab that warehoused what little of the vaccine there was.”
She remembered of course. How could she forget?
“Mario thought if he approached the Council, he could make them see reason, but he couldn’t. So he and Walter came up with the idea to have Mario seem to betray us. If Mario could convince the Council he’d rather throw in with them, maybe we could end the fighting and get control of the vaccine that way.”
“Or maybe you could have tried something that didn’t involve screwing me over!”
Doug sighed. “If we had someone on the inside, at least there was a chance. And if Mario didn’t appear to join them, they would have tried to kill him. They already thought they had killed Henry. If he wasn’t on their side, getting Mario out of the way would have been the next logical step from their point of view. Think about it, Miri. You know it’s true.”
He’s right, she thought, her mouth twisting into a frown.
“Even after the deal was brokered, they didn’t trust him,” Doug continued. “They wanted his expertise, but if he stepped out of line at all, you can imagine what they’d have done.”
“They’d have gone after the kids,” Miranda whispered. If they had killed Mario and Emily’s children… She felt sick just thinking about it.
“They’d have gone after you, too. He was trying to protect you.”
The Council would have tried to kill her if they thought it would keep him in line. They had just tried it not an hour ago. The Jesuits were powerful now and she was one of their people. It was a stupid, dangerous play, but they made it anyway. But she was not ready to concede anything, no matter how right Doug might be. What they’d done to her was unconscionable.
“And all of you thought it would be better for me to not know? To think he betrayed us? Used me?” She couldn’t stop her voice from cracking. “What gave you the right?”
Doug received her anger without flinching. “We didn’t have the right. We just knew you could never pull it off.”
“You never gave me the chance!” Miranda jumped to her feet, unable to stay still.
“How long would it have been before you started
meeting him in secret? Three months? Six months? A year?”
Miranda stared at him, openmouthed. “I don’t fucking believe you.”
“How long?”
“I would have done whatever it took!”
“I gave it six months.”
“Did you fucking place bets?” she shouted.
“We didn’t have to! You suck at lying.”
“Go fuck yourself, y—” Miranda started, but Doug cut her off.
“You can be sneaky and devious, absolutely. But lie? About something that important? You wear your heart on your sleeve, Miranda, and you follow it no matter what! You wouldn’t have been able to stay away. It might have taken a while, but eventually you’d have tried to see him. And if you had known the truth, he wouldn’t have been able to stay away either. The pair of you would have blown his cover and that would have been that.”
A grief so pure Miranda was sure she would die flooded through her, and then she was floating. We look so tiny from up here, she thought. She supposed she ought to wonder why she was looking down at herself, but she could not muster the will to care. Not caring was so much easier than what Miranda-on-the-floor was doing. That Miranda flung the reliquary at a confessional door so hard it got stuck in the lattice. That Miranda pounded the altar. She heard the smack of that fist against the marble but did not feel a thing where she hovered by the timbered ceiling. No bruising of tendons or snap of bones. Her hand should have hurt, but it didn’t. All the hurt was twined around her heart.
She watched Doug scramble to grab the other Miranda’s arms. “Miri, stop! You’re going to break your hand!”
“Leave me alone,” the other Miranda cried, and then she was back in her body, dizzy and sick. Doug was holding her wrist and her hand hurt like a motherfucker. She looked into Doug’s glacier-blue eyes and couldn’t take it anymore. Helpless, she began to cry.
