Solomon's Ring

by Mary Jennifer Payne

  “We’ve got our best people combing through all the video surveillance from last night as we speak,” the chief says, folding his hands on the table. He shakes his head. “I was really hoping we’d be able to ­prevent something like this. It’s hard to imagine how the bombs got under those cars.”

  “We’re sure it wasn’t suicide bombers? Absolutely, one hundred percent?” Mayor Smith asks, glancing at the wall monitors. There are at least five screens, all projecting different live feeds from newscasts and ­social media. “Because if those bombs were planted, this is something new for the CCT. They generally don’t mind sacrificing themselves for their cause.”

  The chief’s chocolate eyes darken with concern. “I don’t think we can attribute this to any particular group at this point in the investigation. And no one has stepped forward to take responsibility.”

  “Who else would it or could it be?” Smith says, her voice tinged with frustration. “After all, they’ve been threatening to take action for the last while. We were short on subway engineering crews last night. It was also the first night starting garden patrols, so we were a bit understaffed in terms of the night workers who usually provide security on the transit system.”

  I glance at my video watch, willing it to come to life. With each passing minute, I’m getting more and more concerned about Mr. Khan. He would know to get ahold of me, would know I’d be sick with worry. Biting my lip, I force myself to pay attention to what’s happening around the table.

  There’s a knock at the door. One of the uniformed ­security officers walks over and opens it. The same ginger-­haired assistant who broke the news about the bombings comes striding into the room and up to our table.

  “They’ve made an arrest,” he says breathlessly.

  We all stop and stare at him in unison like ­synchro­nized swimmers. The air in the room becomes thin and electric with anticipation.

  “A person of interest was spotted on the ­security ­footage, and a short time later, a man fitting the ­description perfectly was found disoriented, wandering close to Queen Station.” He looks over at the chief. “The deputy chief has requested you return to headquarters as soon as possible. There’s a media frenzy both here and there. The suspect was taken to 52 Division.”

  Smith nods. “Thank you, Mitchell. We’ll need the car in about five. Around back, please. And Jasmine and Mr. Jawad will be accompanying us.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mitchell says, turning on his heel.

  “Ma’am?” Smith asks, arching an eyebrow at him, her voice knife’s-edge sharp.

  “Sorry, I’ve just always wanted to say that … British crime shows…” His voice trails off as he leaves the room.

  The chief’s video watch buzzes. He looks at a ­message and frowns. “It seems they can’t make a ­positive ­identification on the suspect. He was found wearing specialized contact lenses, and his ­fingerprints have been eradicated. Deep acid burns … about a month old. Which coincides with the exact time he claims to have become disoriented. He remembers nothing for the last four weeks and says his life before that is hazy. If this guy knows his own identity, he’s not ­letting on.”

  JADE

  Mr. Butterman opens his door on my fourth knock. His face is flushed tomato red, and his bald scalp ­glistens with sweat. It’s hard for him to move quickly due to bad knees, which are only getting worse with weight gain and age, and he’s got the unfortunate luck of­ ­having an ­apartment located on the south-facing side of the ­building, which makes it feel like a sauna even this early in the morning.

  “Have you heard?” he asks, somewhat breathless, moving to one side to let me in.

  “Heard what?” I ask as I squeeze past his large frame and head toward the tiny galley kitchen. There’s no way we’ll both fit in here. Setting down my ­knapsack on the chipped countertop, I begin to unpack his ­groceries. Each week the amount seems to dwindle as things ­become more expensive. Soon Mr. Butterman won’t need to worry about his weight, if shortages and food inflation keep happening at this rate.

  “Oh, you obviously haven’t,” he says, following me a little more closely than I’d like. A wave of pungent body odour wafts over me, and I fight the urge to cover my nose. He’s a nice man; I don’t want to hurt his feelings.

  “Bombs … on the subway,” he says, his eyes ­widening.

  “Really? Where now?”

  “Here in Toronto. At least two subway trains have been blown up. Downtown core.” He leans against the ­doorjamb, breathing heavily. “They say the death toll is going to be well over two dozen for sure.”

  I feel like I’ve just been punched in the stomach. “I need to get in touch with my sister … with Jasmine. Are you sure it’s just on the subway? There haven’t been any other attacks? On government buildings or anything?”

  He shakes his head, causing drops of perspiration to fly from his hairline. “So far no, but who can say what these climate-change terrorists are plotting next. And communication lines are not dependable right now. The internet is overloaded.”

  I put a package of protein bars down on the counter and check my video watch. Nothing. No messages at all. Upon closer inspection, I see that Mr. Butterfield is right: I have no signal.

  “Jasmine’s with Mayor Smith. She’s at City Hall. You’re sure nothing’s happened there?”

  He nods and smiles kindly at me. “Jade, that’s the most secure place in all of Toronto at the moment. Don’t worry. She’s probably trying to get through to you right now. If she knows that you were coming to the buildings at this time, she’ll be more worried. After all, you could’ve been on that subway train at Queen ­coming down here. Why don’t I make you a cup of dandelion tea?”

  “No, thank you. I need to go deliver to the others…. We didn’t take the subway, we took the bus today,” I add, wiping away beads of sweat on my brow. I’m more thinking out loud than anything else now, trying to calm myself. “Jasmine told me not to take the subway. Said there would be major delays.”

  Mr. Butterman frowns. “Your sister warned all of you not to get on the subway system?”

  I know what he’s thinking. I don’t even need to read his mind to know that he thinks Jasmine had ­something to do with the bombings. And I don’t blame him. I’d think the same thing if someone told me their sister warned them not to take the subway on the day of a terrorist attack.

  “It’s not like that. Mayor Smith told her to tell us. The engineering work didn’t get finished at track level last night, which meant delays today. Trains were going to need to slow down or something like that.”

  Mr. Butterman gives a low whistle. “The mayor told your sister to warn people close to her not to take the ­subway today? Jesus.” He shakes his head. “There’s ­something very rotten in the state of Denmark … or in this case, Toronto.” He quietly watches me for a few moments, ­trying to decide if he can trust me with what he’s just said.

  My legs suddenly feel like wet strands of spaghetti, and I lean against the counter for support. “I think you might be right.”

  “Jade,” Mr. Butterman says, “don’t go telling ­anyone else that you were warned not to take the subway today.”

  “Too late. I’m with Lily and Vivienne, so they know about the warning as well.”

  “If you are sure you can trust them, trust them with your life, then tell them the same. Otherwise, don’t mention it unless they do. And Jade?”

  “Yes?”

  He looks me in the eye. Deep fear radiates from him. “Do me a favour and don’t tell anyone you talked to me about this, okay?”

  Jasmine reaches me on video as I’m about to do two ­deliveries on the seventh floor. The reception on my watch is fuzzy, but I’m not sure if it’s due to being in the stairwell or the ongoing communications ­disruptions.

  As soon as I answer, relief spreads across her face. “You’re okay,” she says,
smiling broadly. “Mom’s at home, so she’s safe as well. I told her I’d talked to you. Little lie, but I didn’t want her to worry.” She stops and bites her bottom lip. It’s a nervous habit. “You haven’t heard from Mr. Khan, have you?”

  I shake my head. “Maybe he’s just having trouble getting through. I haven’t had a signal until now, and it’s still weak. Where are you?”

  “We’re heading into a conference room to meet with the police chief and Mr. Jawad. Though I’m not really sure why I need to be there.”

  I pause. The stairwell is completely empty. “Are you with Smith right now?” I ask.

  “No, I’m in the washroom just about to head back.”

  “Don’t you think it’s more than a little strange that she told you to warn us about the subway delays today? Smith? That she made sure we weren’t on the subway?”

  Jasmine frowns. “It didn’t really cross my mind. Smith seemed totally shocked when the news broke. Believe me. I was right there when she was told.”

  I shrug. “Maybe she was surprised … or maybe she’s just a really good actor. It seems a bit too coincidental to me. Were you able to get into her thoughts when it happened?”

  There’s a pause. “I didn’t try. I guess I was so shocked about the bombing. The thing is, with Smith knowing what we can do, I think she guards her thoughts around me pretty closely.”

  “If she had been truly shocked about the bombing, you’d think she just might have forgotten to do that. Just promise to be super careful today, okay?”

  Jasmine nods. I hope she knows I’m not just ­talking about the potential for further attacks. More and more, I get the feeling we’re being drawn into a very ­dangerous game.

  JASMINE

  “The suspect was identified within forty-eight hours of his arrest as Taylor Moore, a ­thirty-five-year-old man from North Bay who moved to Toronto ­several years ago after an acrimonious separation.” Jade­ ­finishes ­reading and looks up from her tablet. “It says he’d had ­inconsistent contact with his family due to his ­ongoing battle with drug and alcohol addiction. Apparently, it was his mom who recognized him from the news and contacted the police.” She holds her ­tablet up, screen forward, showing us a photo of a tanned, well-muscled Moore when he was a few years younger, in running clothes with a black Labrador ­beside him. The news site has juxtaposed that photo with one taken the day after his arrest. In the recent photo, he’s gaunt, ­dead-fish pale, and his eyes are ­hollowed and haunted.

  It’s lunch, and we’re sitting in the corner of the ­cafeteria with Lily and Cassandra. The place is heaving with bodies and loud conversation. Not an easy place to talk, but I don’t want to take the chance of the others overhearing any of our conversation. Already I feel like a bit of specimen with everything going on. I stare down at my plate. Today’s lunch is kale and sweet ­potato mash. The school is now strictly following the new government protocol for serving a plant-based diet of ­drought-resistant vegetables.

  “It must’ve been really hard for her to contact them,” Lily says, tucking her hair behind her ears and taking a bite of her mash. “It’s a bit heartbreaking. I bet she didn’t have a clue what Smith’s new terrorism laws were really going to be like.”

  “Yeah, but the guy is clearly CCT and guilty. After all, it’s not like we’re all going around burning off our fingerprints and wearing contact lenses that prevent iris scans, are we?” Cassandra interjects. “Twenty-two people died, and others are in the hospital with limbs blown off. If that were my kid, I’d disown him too.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not sure it’s that ­black and white. He looks like he’s drugged or hypnotized or ­something. Have you seen the interviews with him? He’s so ­confused. It’s like his memory was wiped out or something.”

  “Maybe the CCT has some sort of mind serum to wipe out people’s memories,” Cassandra says. “Or he’s lying. If they’ve already created specialized contact ­lenses, who’s to say they don’t have other crazy ­technology?”

  Jade frowns. “Come on, this isn’t science fiction. The guy clearly has amnesia. Maybe it’s drug-induced or something, but that’s as far as the science part of this goes. What worries me is the fact that I don’t think he’s going to get a fair trial.” She looks over at me as she finishes speaking.

  “Smith’s going to make an example of him for sure,” I say, pushing my plate away. My appetite’s been pretty much nonexistent lately. “She’s planning to follow through with the death penalty on this, and I think she’s going to want a public execution … or at least have it available to be live-streamed.”

  Lily makes a face. “That’s barbaric. People aren’t going to allow that, for sure.”

  “Actually, you’d be surprised. Most of the surveys Smith’s government has done in the last few days show the majority of Torontonians are in support of ­executing anyone who commits an act of terrorism. And Moore is on camera planting those bombs, whether he ­remembers doing it or not,” I say. “I’m not saying I agree with Smith wanting to execute him, but a lot of people in the city and the country want exactly that to happen. In fact, ­tonight I’m being filmed beside her night-work crew with one of the little kids who was injured in the blast. That will create even more support for getting his balls to fry.”

  “That’s a lovely way to put it,” Jade says with a ­grimace.

  “Well, I agree with the majority,” Cassandra says. “This isn’t the time to be a bleeding heart. There’s enough hardship with climate change, and don’t forget our demon friends who are likely around the corner.… So if someone wants to commit a crime as disgusting as blowing up innocent people on subways and buses, then I say, no matter what the reason, they deserve the same happening to them. It’s time to take back this city.”

  “Excuse me,” Jade says, standing up. I notice she hasn’t finished even half of her lunch either. “I need to go finish some reading for one of my classes this afternoon.”

  That’s a lie. Jade always finishes her homework well before any deadline.

  “I’ll join you,” Lily says, getting up and gathering both their trays.

  As soon as they’re out of earshot, Cassandra leans ­toward me, elbows on the table. “Second-borns,” she says, rolling her eyes. “They don’t get it. I don’t care if the terrorists have family out there on ships or whatever. Closing our borders is a good thing.”

  I shrug, not wanting to get into a conversation that feels like sister-bashing. “I know Moore is guilty, ­because I’ve seen the security videos; they show him entering the station late at night and putting the bombs under the trains. But what I don’t understand is how he got in after hours in the first place. Unless he hid ­somewhere until the station closed, it makes no sense. That also means he’d have had to hide there until ­morning. And it doesn’t explain how two bombs went off in different stations. He couldn’t have been in both ­stations overnight.”

  “Which station did you see the footage from?” Cassandra asks.

  “That’s just it … I saw footage of him in both stations the night before the bombings.” I shake my head. “He’d need help to have pulled it off. Someone on the inside, a night cleaner or security guard, someone helping him get in and out undetected.”

  “I don’t believe in conspiracy theories, Jazz,” Cassandra says. “And you’d know if they were looking for other suspects before any of us anyhow. Not only that, but it would be all over the news. But if you’re right, and the CCT have got people on the inside … you’ve told Smith about your suspicions, right?”

  I shake my head. “I guess I can mention it tonight if I get the chance.”

  Cassandra arches an eyebrow at me. “It’s your duty to do that, when you think about it. We need to be ­reporting anything we’re suspicious about in order to keep the city safe.”

  Mayor Smith’s driver picks me up at 8:00 p.m. sharp. Mr. Khan’s already in the back sea
t when I get in.

  “Frederick got me first for once,” he says with a wry smile. “Our destination tonight is somewhere closer to here, apparently.” I know he feels as uneasy as I do about these publicity stunts we’re doing for Mayor Smith.

  I glance at his bandaged hand. “Is it feeling any ­better?”

  He nods. “It’s getting there. I’m using silicone sheeting on it at night. Supposed to help the burn heal.” Glancing at the back of Frederick’s head, he leans closer to me. “This is crazy, you know. I wasn’t even the one who helped the little girl. After the bomb went off, I stayed with an elderly woman whose right leg was blown off. It’s propaganda, what we’re doing tonight. A complete and utter lie.”

  “Well, you were helping people after the bombing. You didn’t have to do that. You could’ve just run to ­safety like nearly everyone else did.”

  “You know what I’m getting at. It’s wrong. ­Full stop. We’re colluding with a government that’s asking a ­four-year-old child to lie to the public in order to gain support for its crazy policies. I don’t know who helped that little girl the morning of the bombing, but it ­certainly wasn’t me.” He sits back heavily in the seat and sighs.

  It’s pitch black as we pull up to the train station, and the streets are so empty you could bowl down them. A camera crew guides us to a room where our makeup and hair will be done. The little girl is in there already.

  I smile at her as I’m led to one of the chairs. It’s like a chair at a hair salon, with a foot pump to change its height and a large, fully lit mirror directly in front of it. I sit down heavily, and makeup and hair people ­immediately swoop down on me.

  The little girl smiles back at me. Her dark hair is pulled into two pigtails and tied with red ribbons. The skin on one half of her face is bandaged, and her left arm is in a cast.