Martial Lawless (Calm Act Book 3)

by Ginger Booth

  “That was disturbing,” Brandy said. Seeing my puzzlement, she added, “Dee, they’ve reverted the Church. Revoked the modernizations.”

  “Vatican Council II was major,” Gianetti confirmed. “Mass in the vernacular. Modernizing the clothes. Women included in more roles.”

  “I hate the hat,” Brandy groused. “My grandmother was always after me to wear a hat and gloves to Mass. ‘Nice girls still do.’ It’s archaic. I wonder if they’ve brought back the flying nun habits, too.”

  I pointed mutely behind her to a trio of nuns boarding a mini-van. They wore full-length black habits, white wimples and black trailing veils. No flapping seagull hats.

  Gianetti was less concerned with the apparel. “Respecting the separation of church and state. No longer blaming Jews for the crucifixion. Vatican II covered a lot of ground. And catechism for six year olds? These days we wait to start children until around nine.” She looked up thoughtfully. “Ladies, we want insight into everyday women’s lives. Perhaps this is a systematic error, catching them as they emerge from church.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. We walked over to the priest, Father Uccello, who was alone by now, but still lingering at the front steps. We asked him where we might meet women who were employed outside the home and church. The markets, perhaps?

  But apparently the churches had cornered the market on markets, as well. There were monthly flea markets, at the churches, but food and other basic goods were also distributed through the all-Christian churches. There wasn’t much employment to be found, and most of the jobs outside the church were taken by men. They needed the work more, so that they could support their families. We thanked the priest for his time and went back to consult by our vehicles.

  Brandy grumbled, “Over half of all families in America with children to support, are led by women. They deserve to starve?”

  “Or remarry,” Gianetti replied, playing devil’s advocate. “As a high priority.”

  “What a goal,” Brandy complained. “Let’s all return to 1950’s America. Or more like 1920’s, without refrigerators.”

  “Suburbs?” I suggested brightly. “I’d like to meet an Amish family.”

  “But they don’t want to meet you, Dee,” Brandy replied. “Amish are mostly in eastern PA. Lancaster. Even if they were here, they wouldn’t talk to us. The Amish would shun a woman for talking to the English.”

  “English?”

  “Us,” Brandy clarified. “English speakers. Not Pennsylvania Dutch. Outsiders.”

  “Oh. Well, if the women are all embedded in churches,” I countered, “maybe we are at the right place. We should just…attend services?”

  Gianetti looked at me appraisingly. “I don’t think that would do you any good, Dee,” she said gently. “You don’t have the background to understand what you’re hearing. Like here. Brandy and I understood, because we’re Catholic. You’re an outsider to all churches, aren’t you.”

  I sighed. She had a point. This was mostly gibberish to me. Except for the overall take-home message. That was clear as day. Most of the women of Pittsburgh had been swallowed up by the churches. “I respect churches,” I said vaguely, in my defense.

  Brandy snorted. “Enough for today. Let’s go back to the hotel.”

  Fat raindrops started to splatter the pavement by the time we got there, the day’s light overcast fleeing as dark thunderheads chased it eastward. By four, the tornado sirens were warbling again. Emmett prudently stayed the night with the second of the three Rescos he’d traveled to interview.

  But the early sirens brought a standing-room-only crowd to the hotel’s tornado shelter basement. We didn’t need to go hunt natives to interview. They came to us.

  Chapter 17

  Interesting fact: Even before the Calm Act, the Catholic Church was the largest non-governmental provider of education and medical services in the world.

  “So all we’re missing is Judgment,” I said, looking over my notes. “From the fighting sects. We have good coverage on non-fighters, too.”

  “I’ll have you know my judgment is excellent,” Brandy quipped back.

  We were meeting after lunch the next day in the hotel lobby, to take stock of the project so far and decide where to go next with it.

  “Oh! And the Pittsburgh PD,” I added, making a note. “Could use some interviews from the burbs to round it out. But I haven’t heard of any fighting out there, just protection from looters. That’s what militia is supposed to do.”

  “We have more than enough footage, Dee,” Brandy countered. “Focus, girlfriend. So do we envision this as a series of short cameos? An in-depth story, maybe 10 minutes?”

  I blinked. “You call 10 minutes an in-depth story?”

  “On housewives of Pittsburgh?” said Brandy dubiously. “I’d call it rather long. Footage of the militia fighting would be better. But we’re not Amiri Baz.”

  PR’s Amiri Baz was a double Pulitzer Prize–winning war correspondent. He and his team provided us stunning footage during Project Reunion, from inside the starving city, food riots and living conditions and shoot-outs with gangs, and from Penn’s war-opening attack on West Point. But no, Brandy and I, and earnest young Blake Sondheim on the cameras, were not war correspondents. If I asked the guards for help, they’d threaten to lock me in the basement.

  On second thought, I suggested, “We could position Blake on the roof. He could call us if there’s anything to film.”

  “Sucks to be Blake,” Brandy agreed. “You paying him?” she inquired with batted lashes.

  Without jokes or teasing in return, with pure business manners, I paid her and her team 2 weeks in Hudson dollars, and picked up their hotel tab, including unlimited use of the buffet. Apparently their producer was cheaping out on them. They’d only been eating breakfast in the hotel, then snacks from the van for the rest of the day.

  Money transfers completed, Brandy sat back to gaze at me thoughtfully. “What kind of story do you want for PR, Dee?” Her eyes narrowed. “Is this really a story for PR?”

  “This is Dee doing research,” I evaded. She pursed her lips at me. “Maybe this is Dee assisting Emmett. But he didn’t request this. I just don’t understand what’s going on here in Pittsburgh. People don’t do this in Totoket, or Long Island, or the Apple. Fighting between sects? Reverting a hundred years in women’s roles? I mean, I understand women’s work. Technology is a girl’s best friend. But dresses only? And the women – at least in the fighting sects – they seem as militant as the men. And there’s no reason. I mean, Emmett thinks with a couple tweaks this town could easily be level 9 –” Oops.

  Brandy smirked.

  I scowled at her. “I’m sure there’s a good story about the women, too,” I said primly. “If it makes no sense, there has to be a story in there somewhere. Doesn’t there?”

  Brandy shrugged, with a smile. “With some battle footage from the roof, and that level 9 comment, I could make magic.” Before I could forbid her to use that comment, she quickly changed the subject. It’s not like I could have unsaid it, anyway. “So did you talk to Emmett’s mom about the Evangelists? That is so bizarre, consulting with your boyfriend’s mother.”

  I didn’t bother to defend that again. Emma was a sheriff, and a Resco, and an Evangelist. Asking her made sense to me. “She said the same as Donna Gianetti, basically. That I don’t know religion well enough to be poking at this. But she said ‘Evangelist’ is such a broad term, nearly any Protestant could fit under that umbrella.”

  “No hierarchy,” Brandy differed. “Born again implies adult baptism. Jesus Christ as a personal Savior. Active preaching and modeling a righteous life. As they see it. Bible freaks.”

  “Well, she said ‘in practice.’” I sighed. “That’s why I need your help. This stuff is gibberish to me. I mean, I understand the words. But the distinctions don’t matter to me. And worth dying over? No. So I’m paying you as a research assistant. And you’re welcome to use the footage. Help me out, Brandy. Wh
at am I missing?

  She shook her head. “Everything?” Brandy wasn’t just being mean. I think she truly wanted me to understand. “Dee. You don’t get religion. Look, I’m not saying you’re not a spiritual or moral person. I’m sure you are. But the whole worldview of God, or Jesus, or the Bible or the clergy or the congregation, or even Emmett and the martial law government – anything outside of you, dictating what is right. That’s not you. You don’t see the value.”

  I’m usually a quick study, but it felt like I was struggling to put two plus two together, even counting on my fingers. “What value?”

  “The value of bowing your will to a higher authority.”

  I bowed my will with the utmost difficulty, even to men pointing guns at me. “Are you kidding?”

  Brandy groaned and shook her head. “Try to stay with me here, Dee. If it’s all up to God anyway, it’s not your fault. Right?” I nodded that this logically followed. “You have this part to do, and you know how to do it. And you believe that if you do your part, Jesus or God, or even Emmett, will take care of the rest.”

  “I think Emmett would really object to that statement,” I objected.

  “I’m sure he would,” Brandy agreed, “if he’s an Evangelist.” Oops. Emmett preferred to keep his religion private. He hadn’t even told me he was an Evangelist for months.

  “But you’re missing the point, Dee. Try to stay with me here. If the world has gone insane, turned upside down, and fixing it is entirely beyond your power –”

  “You do the next right thing,” I supplied.

  “No, Dee. You do the next right thing,” Brandy explained patiently. “But that’s not a religious response. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  The lobby doors opened, and in walked Emmett with his entourage. “Saved by the bell,” Brandy said. I shot her a look. “Who’s that, with Emmett?”

  That was a very tall woman officer, taller than Emmett and even more upright and perfect in posture and uniform wrinkles than our gay friend Lt. Colonel Cameron. Severely straight dark blond hair was severely parted in the middle and tacked into a bun at the nape of her neck. This was common enough for a lady soldier, but getting the hair to stay so strictly tidy was no mean feat. The guards were constantly poking at their hair. I got the feeling that this woman did not, as a rule, fidget, with her hair or anything else. Her overall presentation screamed out assured command presence.

  “Emmett!” I called out, and rose from my armchair with a smile. “Welcome back!”

  He smiled and came toward me, directing the woman with a brief touch on the elbow. He paused a half step in puzzlement as he took in the fact that I’d been sitting with Brandy. They stopped to stand rather formally in front of us.

  “Major Caroline Drumpeter,” Emmett introduced, “may I present my partner, Dee Baker, and her, um, friend, Brandy O’Keefe. Brandy is a reporter with IndieNews. The competition for Dee’s Project Reunion News. Ladies, Major Drumpeter.”

  She gave us a bracing smile. “Pleased to meet you, ladies. Call me Drum.”

  “Drum is Resco for northwest PA. On Lake Erie.” Emmett’s voice trailed off. “Dee, what are you wearing?”

  I was wearing a modest brown knee-length coat-dress with librarian heels. Brandy had selected a mid-calf beige pleated plaid skirt under beige turtleneck sweater for her ensemble, with her tiny cross on a chain as the sole decoration. Both of us had our hair tied back.

  “We got these from the hotel lost and found,” I explained. “Lake Erie. Isn’t that far from here, Drum?” I’d forgotten that Pennsylvania touched the Great Lakes, but yes, they held a stretch of lake shore between Buffalo and Cleveland.

  “I’m based in Meadville,” Drum replied. “Ninety miles north of Pittsburgh.”

  “Why are you dressed like a librarian, darlin’?” Emmett pressed. For Drum’s benefit, he explained, “Normally she wears red and maximum cleavage,” he pointed to Brandy, who grinned, “and Dee wears steampunk. Or navy chinos and blazer. Or farm coveralls. Anything really, except…that.”

  I curtsied slightly, and explained, “Drum, we’re interviewing women in Pittsburgh. Trying to understand their lifestyle choices.” I paused. “And the religious wars.”

  “Dee doesn’t understand religion, though,” Brandy said with a sigh.

  Drum smiled and nodded, without unbending her perfect posture in the slightest. She even kept her combat boots 6 inches apart and perfectly parallel, hands clasped behind her in habitual parade rest. A model officer. I found her unnerving, and wanted to slouch.

  “Uh-huh,” Emmett said. He pursed his lips thoughtfully and narrowed his eyes, then seemed to mentally shrug it off. He dismissed me with a peck on the cheek. “See you at dinner, darlin’. Drum, let’s get you checked in.”

  I struggled to get back to work and keep my eyes off Drum and Emmett on their introduction rounds, despite our excellent vantage point in the lobby. Drum had an entourage, militia from her district by the look of them, a couple dozen.

  Brandy laughed at me. “Jealous, Dee?”

  “Perplexed,” I answered in reflex. Oops. No, I didn’t want to discuss Emmett’s Resco decisions with Brandy.

  But why on Earth did he bring a woman Resco to Pittsburgh? He wasn’t thinking of putting her in charge, was he? They didn’t appoint black officers to organize majority white districts. New Haven inherited a black Resco after Emmett, but only after it was organized and doing well. Though in truth, women were the majority in every district. I debated asking him for a moment in private to voice my concerns, but decided against it. Emmett hadn’t asked for my opinion. Apparently he thought he knew what he was doing.

  “You know what?” I announced. “I’m sick of city. Let’s go check out the burbs.” I pulled up my layered analysis maps of the district on my computer, that we’d done to figure out the extent of the tornado damage. I swatted Brandy away when she tried to look over my shoulder. There was something… Yes. In Green Tree, the falsely reported suburb of Dane Beaufort’s death, we had some curious features marked on the ‘unidentified’ layer.

  -o-

  “Heya, darlin’,” Emmett said, folding me into his arms for a deep kiss. Alas, we were not in either of our bedrooms, but rather the hotel meeting room Emmett had claimed for his office. And Major Drumpeter would be along soon. I’d hoped for some quality time, alone together after dinner. Instead he and Drum would be working into the night.

  Still, it felt awfully good to touch him again. I’d been holding a tension in my shoulders ever since our first stupid ‘harlot’ confrontation, that grew with the militia fighting in the streets, and him leaving for days without our fight fully resolved. Emmett’s businesslike greeting when he came back only made it worse. ‘Are you mad at me?’ hung over my head like a pall. It took only a single private kiss to evaporate that question. His face was open, boundaries down. He touched without reservation. He was glad to see me.

  “Hey, you, too,” I said, exploratory. “How you been, stranger?” OK, maybe my boundaries were still a bit prickly.

  “Not bad. Got a lot of answers from the neighboring Rescos. Plans coming together, ” Emmett reported, somewhat evasively. “Missed you, though.”

  “Uh-huh,” I replied. That was usually his line.

  “Uh-huh,” he echoed with a smile. “Can’t tell you what’s going on.”

  “You’re wired,” I accused. “Not expecting another night of gunfire in the streets, are we?”

  I didn’t often get to see Emmett carry out a military operation. I didn’t belong anywhere near one. And even if a camera crew were standing by, he’d typically forbid recording. But the man truly loved his job, and his eyes were alight. I recognized the signs. Mayhem was in the works.

  “Couldn’t tell you,” Emmett replied. “Tonight I’ll be in here, working with Drum. If I were planning something, couldn’t tell you. Ops details, darlin’. So how’s life with Dee?”

  He wasn’t ask
ing what I was up to. I’d prattled on about that at dinner with IBIS and Drum. Agent Donna Gianetti, at least, had been intrigued to hear that Judgment was the one militant faction I still had no handle on. Emmett, Drum, and Kalnietis seemed more of the persuasion that it didn’t matter if Judgment thought the moon was made of goat cheese. The local militia needed to keep their beliefs inside their pointy little heads and stop shooting at each other. An inarguable position.

  “Better now that you’re back,” I said, and settled my body more firmly against his. “About that date night idea,” I suggested leadingly.

  “Sorry, darlin’,” he said. “Not for the next few nights. Gonna be working long hours with Drum.”

  “Is something going on between you and Drum?” It just blurted out. I didn’t mean to say it.

  He laughed out loud. “Dee, Drum’s a brother officer.”

  “Sister.”

  “No difference to me,” Emmett assured me. “Dee, you work with a nearly all-male crew at Amenac. I don’t see you drooling over Popeye or Dave. Same difference. Drum’s a team-mate.”

  “Why would you pick a female Resco for Pittsburgh?” I asked. “Emmett, have you noticed how far these people have backslid on women’s equality?”

  “Sure have,” he agreed. “They need to get over it. I met with three Rescos, Dee. Drum is the best qualified. I don’t want to go into this now. She’ll be here any minute.”

  “But you know what you’re doing,” I said doubtfully.

  “Uh-huh,” he said.

  “And there will be mayhem.”

  He gave me a deep kiss instead of answering. “Wanna talk. Wanna have that date,” he murmured after, laying his cheek against mine. “But it’ll be a few days. I need to do my job now, darlin’. Trust me a little while.”

  Drum arrived, and I turned to leave.

  “Oh, Dee? One more thing,” Emmett requested. “Now that people are home for the night, I’d like you to split the meshnet into subnets. Maybe twenty or so for the city, six for the rest of Allegheny County outside the city. Try to break it along any militia boundaries you see on the map. Can you do all that tonight?”