by Jess Lourey
Salem nodded numbly, scribbling down notes. “To look inside a bell for a key that will crack the world’s most famously unbreakable cipher, leading us to treasure, a master docket of Underground leaders, and some sort of lightning bolt that will bring down the Hermitage.” She needed a shower, and dinner, and sleep. The weight of her mom’s life, or Grace’s, weighed on her shoulders like stones.
“You didn’t read it all again,” Mercy said condescendingly, pointing at the scroll that lay next to Salem and pulling her out of her exhausted spiral. “What’s at the bottom?”
Salem tossed her head as if pulled from a dream. She picked up the third sheet of the scroll, glancing to the foot, to the section she’d skipped over after reading the key Dickinson provided. “It’s a post script,” she said. “It looks like a poem.”
P.S. Indulge me as I gift this Blessing on your Journey—
I know where the pink flower grows
But,—I ne’er pick it
Let it follow its highest path
Female freedom, think it!
“That’s pretty,” Mercy said. “I like pink flowers.”
Jason hadn’t had time to dispose of the rental car and obtain a new one. He’d deposited the body inside the tilting barn, used her shirt to clean the blood off the windows, and driven straight to the police station in time to witness Salem Wiley and Isabel walk out of the Amherst Police Department like they owned the world.
He didn’t mind the meaty slaughterhouse smell of the car’s interior. The outside air was cool enough to keep the biomatter from rotting, at least for as long as he’d need the vehicle.
Besides, the scent kept him company while he waited in the parking lot across from the Road King Motel, killing time until the light in room 23 winked out.
67
Iowa City, Iowa
Senator Gina Hayes’s eyes were open to the night sky.
That crescent moon, curved and plump, almost orange, was a Cheshire cat smiling down as the world collapsed.
Two Secret Service men covered her body with theirs. Three more flew off the stage like night creatures taking flight. A second bullet flew. Police swarmed toward the source of both shots. They reached the shooter in five seconds, a full second after the Secret Service, but they could have taken a minute, or ten, or an entire day, because the shooter would not get off another round. Two civilians in black-and-gold Hawkeye jerseys held him face-down, three fingers on his left hand broken in the effort it took to wrest his gun from him, his left arm hanging queerly from where they’d chicken-winged him.
All of this took place in a vacuum, suspended in time and space.
The world, watching via live video stream, held its breath.
And then the sound came rushing back.
“Get her offstage!”
“Has she been shot?”
“Move the camera closer!”
Senator Hayes was carried off by the Secret Service agent who’d initially pushed her down, Theodore, her first line of protection since she’d declared her candidacy.
“Theodore,” she said, surprised at how calm she sounded, “I can walk. You don’t need to hold me like an infant.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” He didn’t put her down.
A phalanx of men in suits appeared alongside him, shielding her as much as possible. Through their shoulders, she spotted Charles, his face raw with worry. She heard Matthew issuing commands, ordering back the media, her soldier to the end. Theodore didn’t slow until he reached her car, which he tucked her into before sliding next to her. He gently pushed her head down, below window level. The passenger door opened and another Secret Service agent slid in on her other side, and two more in the front. They sped away.
“I haven’t been shot.”
“I know, ma’am. The bullet passed three inches above your right shoulder, through the recording wall behind you, and hopefully lodged itself in the stadium wall.” He kept his hand on her back so she wouldn’t sit up. Both he and his partner in the backseat were scanning the world sliding past, their muscles thrumming with adrenaline. The driver was doing the same. The agent next to him was on the phone, talking in a low voice.
Senator Hayes smoothed her pant legs as much as possible from this bent position. How were her hands not shaking? “I need to let my husband know I’m all right.”
“Protocol, ma’am. We have to remove you from the scene and transport you to a safe location.”
She felt the back of her head. She’d have a nice goose egg where Theodore had thrown her down. Her right shoulder was tender, as well. She was damn lucky. “Thank you for saving my life.”
“My job, ma’am.”
They drove in silence for another minute. “Theodore, we’ve been together for what, almost a year?”
“Eleven months and fourteen days, ma’am.”
“So you can guess what I’m going to say next, can’t you?”
He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his phone, and handed it to her without taking his eyes off the passing crowds. The faintest of smiles tipped his mouth. “Call a press conference and then get back to work?”
She took his phone and punched in Matthew’s number. “Damn straight.”
68
3 E 70th St, New York
Barnaby wished he’d given the woman an opportunity to bathe before he’d requested her company. She washed her hands and face on the private flight here from Minneapolis, but her clothes were crusted with blood and worse. She smelled like a farm animal.
“You know who I am?” he asked. She was staring at him in an unpleasantly direct way.
“Carl Barnaby, one of two Barnaby brothers and current CEO of the Hermitage Foundation.” Her voice was scratchy from disuse.
He studied her. Her glance was bold, but she was a small thing, so slight up close. Supposedly, she was one of the Underground leaders, but what were they? A group of scattered women and a few neutered men. The Hermitage had them outfinanced and outgunned, had since the beginning of time. He was past due to swat this annoying fly once and for all.
His tone was measured. “Your daughter is still alive, as is her friend.”
She flinched. Good.
“Where are they?” Her expression was no longer defiant.
He steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair. He’d received word that Isabel Odegaard and Salem Wiley had escaped from jail. Jason wasn’t answering his phone. If the girls eluded Jason’s grasp and located the list, he might never get his hands on it. He would make sure the media covered their jailbreak to help locate them, but that might not be enough. He needed the woman sitting across from him to tell him where the leadership docket was. “Massachusetts. They’re getting close.”
He paused, but she didn’t say anything. He continued. “If you tell me where the list is, we don’t have to kill them.”
She opened her mouth to laugh, but she was too damaged. Jason had taken bits and slices out of her, twisted her fingers, done what he needed to extract information. Only a low moan escaped. “If you have the list, you’ll kill them and more.”
“Not true.” He dropped his hands and leaned forward in his chair, his expression grandfatherly. “We only need the one.”
“Gina Hayes.”
He shrugged. You’ve got to crack a few eggs. “She’s risen too high. Once she’s eliminated, we could live in peace, the Underground and the Hermitage.”
Her eyes were burning again, pinning him in his seat, accusing him. “This war is older than you and me, older even than Andrew Jackson.” Her voice was rising, shaking, white with fury. “I’m fighting for my life, and the life of my daughter, and our right to live in this world without fear, with opportunity, with control over our own bodies and destinies. Do you even know what you’re fighting for?”
Barnaby stood, abruptly, and turned toward the window. “A man
tried to assassinate Senator Hayes in Iowa just an hour ago.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her pale. “A rural man, from what I understand. Uneducated and angry. He didn’t want to answer to a woman, didn’t want the shame of living in a country run by a female.”
Barnaby walked around to the front of his desk and sat on the edge. “He didn’t succeed.”
He pulled a burgundy handkerchief from his pocket, shook it out, and held it over his nose to mask the stink of her. His words fell like sleet, their syllables sharp and cold. “His methods were rudimentary, but his mission was not. You can’t possibly understand the terror of losing your power after growing so accustomed to it.”
He pulled the handkerchief away. He was no longer able to maintain his cool exterior. “Imagine if you woke up one morning and discovered that someone was going to slice off your hands, or amputate your legs, and use them for their own.” Spittle flew from his mouth. “Would you fight? Would you kill to keep what you knew was yours?”
She rose to her feet in a single swift move that must have cost her immensely. He drew back, his free hand flying up instinctively to shield himself. But she wasn’t going to attack him. She turned toward the door she’d been brought in, shambling away.
“Monday,” he called after her. “Alcatraz. We kill Senator Hayes, obtain the list, harvest Isabel Odegaard and Salem Wiley, and wipe the Underground off the ass of history. I might let you live to see the end. You’d be the last. A dodo bird.”
Barnaby realized he was shouting. He nodded to Geppetto to escort her back to her cell. The woman shuffled out the door without another word, not so much as a glance over her shoulder.
Geppetto paused at the lip of insubordination before following her.
Back in her below-ground cell, she waited until the door closed and locked to slide her hand under the mattress. She had been brought to this building, ironically, through the underground entrance, and she didn’t know where she was, even what city, though it had looked like Central Park outside Carl Barnaby’s office.
Her cage was windowless, an 8' x 8' cement box containing a sink, a toilet, and a bed. She had requested antiseptic and bandages to dress her wounds, which were starting to fester, the infection burning and setting into her bones, the smell thick and rotten.
Her request had been ignored.
But there was a singular brightness. They hadn’t searched her. She was just a woman, small and beaten, so why would they?
Only 3 percent of her battery remained. She must choose her words wisely.
69
Northhampton, Massachusetts
The light in room 23 of the Road King Motel had been extinguished thirty-two minutes earlier. Jason wasn’t in a hurry. Salem Wiley and Isabel were not professionals. They’d been on the run for three days. They were falling into the heavy sleep of the shattered, a tiredness so complete that it weighted your bones with opium and called you down like a lover. If he gave them time to process the last dregs of adrenaline, he’d be able to dismiss them without waking them.
Yet the moon agitated him.
It was too bright for such a thin crescent. Pure orange, not a hint of red or yellow. And Barnaby had been calling nonstop, certainly to shout at Jason and order him back to Boston. Jason would talk to him after both women and the mewling child were dead. He could bring the list of Underground leaders they’d surely retrieved from the gravestone to Barnaby in New York. Then Geppetto wouldn’t be needed.
Jason’s eyes flew open.
It was time.
The Hermitage training he’d received had been exhaustive: a business degree with a psychology minor, hand-to-hand combat, weapons training, DNA cleanup, surveillance technology, breaking and entering.
Room 23’s lock was so easy to pick as to be an insult.
He glided into the room like smoke, closing the door behind him before the moon’s orange light had a chance to follow.
He took stock.
The room smelled like it had been water damaged at some point. Mold and old cigarettes. Heavy shades were pulled over the single window. When his eyes adjusted, Jason made out two beds, one with a single figure—tall, Isabel—and the second holding Salem Wiley, the child curled against her. Holding his breath, he measured theirs. Isabel was snoring lightly. Wiley and the child breathed in sync.
All three were sleeping.
His eyes adjusted further. A white scroll of paper lay on the table between the two beds.
The list.
Jason scanned the floor. It was clear of noisemakers.
He stepped, reaching for the scroll.
Isabel stirred.
His hand shot to the smooth bone handle of his knife, holding it like a promise.
Isabel’s snoring resumed.
Jason released the knife and picked up the scroll. He skimmed the carpet and entered the bathroom. He closed the door gently and paused. Patient, never rushing, even though his blood was a red rocket shooting through his heart and exploding in a bright firework’s display. He needed to make sure he had what he’d come for before he killed the sleeping females in the other room.
The list.
Two hundred years, and the Hermitage had never gotten this close.
When no sound came from the other side of the bathroom door, he unrolled the scroll and scanned the three pages, plus a fourth page of scribbled notes that made clear the women were headed to San Francisco. And then he scanned all four pages again, processing them.
A third time.
He had heard of the Beale Cipher. He knew it was unbreakable and led to hidden treasure in Virginia. That Beale’s hiding place contained the Underground master docket and the secret to bringing down the Hermitage?
New information.
His mind reeled with the possibilities. If he held all the cards, he could trade them for Geppetto’s life. His shoulders relaxed for the first time since learning Barnaby had assigned him Geppetto.
Using a bar of soap and a wash cloth to pin each end of the papers, Jason snapped photos of all four pages. He’d let the women live for a while longer.
Until Salem Wiley solved the final code.
He could be a good loser, if it was temporary. San Francisco, eh? He was going there anyhow.
He thought of his mother. If things are working out, you know you’re doing something wrong. She’d loved that saying. Maybe she still did. He’d have to ask her next time he changed out her IV. Or maybe he could wheel her to a window to see the outside. It’d been years. That was more than she’d ever done for him, but he was feeling generous.
He slid his phone back into his pocket, replaced the soap and wash cloth, and let the scroll snap back to its natural shape, the sheet of notes tucked inside. Holding his ear to the door, he checked for sounds in the other room. There were none. He stepped out, replacing the scroll.
Isabel’s snoring had stopped, her mouth open slightly, a gentle susurration of air passing in and out. He thought of placing his mouth on hers, thrusting his tongue inside, tasting the sweet warmth of her. The embrace of darkness softened her already-impressive beauty, caressing her glorious hair, riding the curve of her cheeks, blessing her lips. He could smell her. Cheap hotel shampoo honeyed by her natural musk, water to wine.
The child whimpered in her bed. He tensed and held his breath, turned only his head. The girl snuggled deeper into Salem Wiley’s arms but did not wake.
Jason glanced back toward Isabel.
Being this close and not touching her? Impossible.
His hand slithered inside his jacket, coming out with his favorite knife.
Strawberries and cream, that skin and that hair.
He reached for it, held a soft lock between two fingers. Isabel closed her mouth, made a hm noise, and returned to her soft snoring.
Slice.
Jason slid the lock of hair into his po
cket and the knife into his sheath, leaving as silently as he’d arrived.
He’d read Barnaby’s text when he’d taken out his phone to photograph the scroll.
Back to the original plan. Follow them until they acquire the list, then fire them.
How nice that Barnaby had given him permission to finish what he’d started.
Saturday
November 5
70
Twelve Years Old
Daniel’s Last Month
It’s May of Salem’s twelfth summer. The sun is a giant lemon floating in the plum pudding of the sky. Lilacs bloom and drowsy dandelion fluff drifts in the air. Her world is bracketed by overalls and fanny packs, double pony tails, and pastel-colored shirts.
Daniel and Vida have planned a surprise birthday party for their only child. It is to be just the three of them, though the Odegaards and all of Salem’s neighborhood friends are invited over for cake afterward. Her dad covers her eyes. Her mom takes her hand. They have a surprise for her. They lead her from the bungalow’s living room to the backyard. It hadn’t been fenced in back then.
She hopes it’s a puppy.
When her dad pulls away his hands, she realizes it’s even better: a refurbished Macintosh PowerBook. She squeals, twirls, flips cartwheels. Her dad stands behind her mom, tall, his arms wrapped around her, both of them smiling. Salem knows that Daniel has made this happen. He’s the one who notices when Salem’s thrift store jeans, too old to be fashionable and too new to be retro, reveal most of her ankles. Despite being as terrible a housekeeper as Vida, it’s he who has always made sure Salem showers every night before school and has her wild curls professionally cut twice a year.
Salem’s kind, foggy-headed dad is her rock, always stable even though he is perpetually dreaming, creating new and more intricate cupboards and furniture and introducing his daughter to each piece of work as if it were a friend.
And three weeks after she receives the PowerBook, he kills himself.
