Sinless

by Sarah Tarkoff

  As we walked up the D.C. block crowded with tourists, I averted my eyes from the Outcasts, mostly homeless, on the streets around Walden Manor. “On Fridays, that’s when you see scenes like that blockade on TV,” my father explained. “That’s the only time the prophet grants miracles without an appointment.”

  There was a line of Outcasts outside the entrance, leading to a line of security guards with guns holstered at their hips. They looked battle-tested—who knew what desperate Outcasts might do to come close to Prophet Joshua’s healing touch? We stepped to the front of the line, flashed our IDs, and a bald, tough guard with ice-blue eyes matched us to a list. The guard watched me carefully, and a shiver went down my spine. “Grace Luther?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  As he ushered us inside, my father explained, “It’s easier for us to get through because of how we look. They know we aren’t lying.”

  Do they? I wanted so badly to ask. Don’t these guards know what I know? Shouldn’t they be in on whatever this great lie is? But I didn’t. We walked through the beautiful hallways, lit by stained-glass windows and filled with religious artifacts from around the world.

  But then we reached a second security checkpoint unlike anything I’d seen before. It reminded me of airport checkpoints in the pre-Revelation era—metal detectors and other mysterious machines. I wondered what those machines scanned for. Could they sense the chemicals coursing through my bloodstream? A long line of Outcasts waited to go through them, people who looked like I had yesterday, barely able to hold themselves up. I wondered if they would survive that line. I wondered if I would survive this trip. I felt a wave of nausea and dread. “Are you okay?” my father asked.

  “I’m not feeling so good,” I said honestly.

  “There’s a bathroom right around the corner.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  I slipped into the bathroom. The cooler air inside calmed my stomach a bit. There was only one other woman in there, a masculine-looking Outcast in a billowy purple dress, carefully applying lipstick. She gave me a sidelong look as I entered. It was funny, how vanity remained even when one’s face was unrecognizable.

  I slipped into a stall, caught my breath. I could do this. I stared at the deep green tile floor, practicing my story in my head. I knew what I had to do, what I had to say. I was ready. As I opened the stall door—WHAM. The door pushed back in on me. The Outcast woman was now in the stall with me.

  “What do you want?” I asked her fearfully. Her brown eyes, strangely familiar, pierced mine. She put a finger to her lips and closed the stall door behind her.

  Finally, she spoke. “Grace. It’s me.”

  Chapter 7

  I didn’t recognize her. But then she spoke again, and I recognized her deep voice. “I can’t stay long.”

  This was no woman—it was often nearly impossible to distinguish the gender of Outcasts’ faces. “Jude?”

  He put a finger to his lips. I couldn’t help myself, blurting out, “What happened? Why do you look like that?”

  “I got your message. It was the only way to get in and see you.”

  “But why do you look like . . .” What sin had he committed, on my behalf, to deserve such Punishment?

  “There are drugs that go the other direction, too,” he explained.

  “You’ve been waiting for me here?”

  “Since I got your message.” He’d found the bear.

  I teared up. “Thank you.”

  “You’re going to be fine. As far as we can tell, Samuel doesn’t know anything besides what your father told him. Don’t accept what he gives you to eat or drink. As long as you tell him what you told your dad, you’ll be fine.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you afraid?” he asked. I nodded. “That’s okay. Most people are nervous to meet high-ranking clerics. You’ll seem authentic.”

  “Should I be? You keep saying I’m in danger. Is Guru Jenkins a bad guy? Is the prophet?”

  Jude shook his head. “Just be careful, and you’ll be fine.” He saw that I was still afraid and added, “I know it’s been scary, but it’s almost over.”

  He hugged me, and I wanted to hide inside his arms. I hadn’t told him or Dawn any of what had happened with Ciaran . . . they didn’t know what had caused my near deadly Punishment, and they’d never asked. I wanted to confide in Jude now about everything . . . but feeling his warmth up against me, I couldn’t bear to tell him about a kiss with another boy. So I simply said, “Aren’t you in danger, being here?”

  “I’ll be fine.” I knew that didn’t mean no. I was so grateful, so moved. It had been mere hours since I’d touched his handsome face, and now his cheek felt so cold under my fingers, the skin dry and damaged. But his eyes—those eyes were the same. And though his appearance was revolting, and his purple dress and the lipstick looked ridiculous, still I wanted to kiss him more than ever.

  Perhaps he saw that look in my eyes, perhaps he was simply afraid that now would be the only opportunity, that I’d walk in to meet the prophet and never come back. But this time, he didn’t pull away. With both of his mangled hands cradling my face, he leaned down to kiss me. And with my eyes closed in that lush green bathroom stall, I saw him as I remembered him—my handsome friend with the deep brown eyes.

  Once we started, I didn’t want to stop. As we tore ourselves apart, he wiped my mouth with the sleeve of his dress. Some of his lipstick had come off on me. “That’s a new one,” he joked.

  “I have to leave, don’t I?”

  He nodded. “One last thing. Did you bring any of the pills we gave you?”

  “Just one. It’s in my shoe.”

  “Give it to me.”

  I pulled it out and handed it to him, and then I kissed my hideous friend on the cheek once more. “Thank you,” I whispered in his ear.

  I slipped out of the stall and looked at my reflection in the mirror. The same as ever. I couldn’t believe that same face held all these new secrets.

  I walked back out and joined my father. “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “I’m ready.”

  Chapter 8

  We passed through the metal detectors and arrived in a waiting area stuffed to the brim with Outcasts. I saw them looking at me, judging my presence—what could I possibly need from the great Prophet Joshua? The wait seemed interminable. Even though my father told me that the prophet’s associates, like Samuel, handled most of these people, and those who did see him directly did so for only a moment, I couldn’t imagine that Joshua could possibly get to all these people today, much less do whatever it was that prophets do when they’re not healing the damned.

  A man, I assumed from his suit, sat in the row next to us, his wheezing breaths coming slower and more strained. I nudged my father, gestured to him. We both recognized it. The man was dying.

  “Should we say something?” I asked.

  My father hesitated a moment, then walked up to the woman at the front desk. He whispered something to her, gestured to the man. She nodded, and my father came back. He whispered, “They’re going to try to move him up.”

  I smiled. Moments later, the receptionist called, “William!” and the man struggled to stand. My father immediately jumped to his aid, helping him toward the door, where a woman with a wheelchair was waiting.

  When my father returned, I whispered, “Am I taking someone else’s spot? These people look like they need help more than I do.”

  My father shook his head. “You do need it right now, even if you don’t look it.”

  I nodded, watching a woman across the room slump in her seat. Was she breathing? By helping that man, had we killed that woman? I pointed her out to my father, but before we could do anything, we heard “Grace?”

  I rose. To my father, I said, “Are you sure someone else shouldn’t . . .”

  “This spot is yours. You deserve it.”

  We walked toward the open door. I looked back in apology at the dying woman, now unconscious. “Will
someone help her?” I asked.

  But before he could answer, we landed in front of a large golden door. A man, one of Joshua’s aides, stood outside, nodded a greeting to both of us.

  “Can I take your coats and shoes?”

  “Of course,” my father answered for both of us. As I removed my shoes, now empty of pills, I was so relieved Jude found me in time.

  “Namaste,” the man said, walking off with our belongings.

  My father squeezed my hand, knowing I needed the encouragement. As difficult as it was to be around him, forced to hold in all these secrets, I was grateful to have my dad there with me for this. The golden door opened, and we stepped into the prophet’s chambers.

  Chapter 9

  As we entered, Samuel gave my father only the most polite and cursory nod. He was a small man—sweaty, with little eyes that flicked back and forth anxiously. His face held no trace of a Punishment, but he was certainly less blindingly attractive than someone like Prophet Joshua. Instinctively, I judged him, wondering if he deserved such a prominent position, given his appearance . . . before remembering that appearance didn’t mean what I’d always thought it did. His voice oozed smarm. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Thank you for seeing us,” my father said. I glanced at a pitcher of water on a side table, but Samuel didn’t offer us any.

  “I was just speaking to the great prophet. He worries about the times we live in. I’ve been telling him for years that world peace can’t last, that the devil’s out there. At last, I think he’s coming around.”

  “I didn’t realize you had such influence on his message,” my father said, holding back a smile.

  Samuel smiled back, aware of the dig. “I offer my counsel as is appropriate. I know you do the same.” Samuel turned to me. “So you’re Grace.”

  “Yes,” I said, grateful for an easy first question.

  “Your dad came to me with quite the story.”

  “I just told him what I saw,” I said.

  “So this boy. Who is he?”

  I gave him a quick, innocent summary of our history. Our meeting. Our date. When I told him about the jacket, Samuel had a lot of questions. Was I sure he hadn’t paid for it? Perhaps he had an account with the store, or perhaps his family owned it, too. When I got to the near rape, Samuel gave far fewer possible excuses, which I appreciated. But then he got to the most difficult question. “What about you? I hear you have this ability now?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Go on, demonstrate it.”

  I looked at my father, who gestured to me. I took a deep breath, and said, “Hell!” My face did not change.

  Samuel chuckled. “You can try a little harder than that.”

  I said a more vile expletive, and then another, nervously watching Samuel’s face. He seemed thoughtful, neither particularly shocked nor horrified.

  “Well?” my father asked, nervously.

  “You know, sometimes it has to do with growing up. Adults are often Punished less for swearing than children.”

  This seemed to be new information to my father. “What about this boy?” he asked. “He did much worse things. It can’t be a coincidence.”

  “Probably not.”

  I held my breath. Samuel was staring at me, trying to puzzle me out. “Have you done anything else?” he asked.

  “Not really,” I said. Then, after a look from my father, I said, “I went to the black market.”

  “Black market?” Samuel was intrigued.

  “It was this place Ciaran showed me. But that’s not bad, is it? I didn’t think it was a bad place to go, if you didn’t buy anything.” I don’t feel guilty, I was trying to tell him. If you know how this system works, you shouldn’t assume I’m lying.

  “Where is this place?” Samuel asked.

  I told him, and then asked, “So am I sick? Is something wrong?”

  Samuel smiled, laughed me off. “I don’t know if you’re sick—I’m not a doctor. But no, I think you’re a perfectly normal, pious seventeen-year-old girl.”

  I smiled, relieved. “Thank you.”

  “You’re sure she doesn’t need to meet with Prophet Joshua? Just to be sure?” my father asked.

  Samuel laughed, a bit condescending. “I think the prophet has more important things to deal with.” I was so relieved. “Goodbye, Grace. I’ll see you soon.” It didn’t sound menacing at the time—I left feeling elated, free. But now, thinking back, those words echo in my head with more foreboding . . . because I know what came next.

  Chapter 10

  I’d managed to keep my nerves in check until the moment we stepped out of Samuel’s office, but walking down the mirrored exit hallway, I was visibly shaking. Outside Walden Manor, I looked around for a motorcyclist in a blue helmet, but all I saw were crowds of pious tourists snapping pictures of the building. Jude must have left while we were in the waiting room.

  When we got home, my father went up to his study. Our day had inspired next Sunday’s sermon, it seemed. I took a deep breath, alone in the kitchen. For the first time since that date with Ciaran, I felt safe.

  Safe, but alone. I could still feel that kiss hovering on my lips, that strange, ugly, magical kiss in the bathroom with Jude. I was antsy. I couldn’t focus on anything. Every book I read, TV show I watched—the stories felt hollow. It all seemed so fake, all these people going about their lives with no idea that everything they believed in was a lie. Every class I attended the next day was full of people who felt just as fake. It was alienating. Like living in a whole other country, on a whole other planet, from every single person I interacted with.

  I sat in history class, tried to focus on the teacher’s words, but even history, a subject entirely devoted to facts, was full of fiction. A whole made-up story of how our world came to be. Macy was still out sick, and I was tasked with collecting her homework, which meant heading to her house and risking an interaction with Zack. The prospect terrified me. I was afraid my midnight phone call to him might have outed me, and I wanted to stay as far away from him as possible.

  As I walked home from school, I knew I had to go to Macy’s. But instead I walked aimlessly. Down streets that led far from her house, far from anywhere I’d ever been before. The unfamiliarity felt refreshing somehow—that perhaps outside of my insular circle of acquaintances, I could find someone who knew the truth, someone I could talk to.

  And perhaps Jude would find me. That was the real reason for my wandering, though I couldn’t have articulated that at the time. He’d been watching me before, so perhaps he still was, perhaps fate would lead me around a corner and I’d find him, waiting for me. I kept an eye on the cars whizzing by, on the pedestrians I crossed paths with. He had to be around here somewhere. And indeed, out of the corner of my eye, I’d occasionally catch a glimpse of what looked like the same car, driving behind me, street after street. Then again, there were a thousand black sedans on the road, so who could say if it was the same one? But deep down I hoped it was Jude.

  Maybe all I had to do was find somewhere secluded, somewhere no one would see us. We could carry out a whole relationship in dark alleys until this war was over. I walked without thinking through dim, unlit streets, the kind I wasn’t trained to be afraid of, having been raised in a crime-free world. I leaned against a grimy brick wall and closed my eyes, hoping that when I opened them, I’d see Jude.

  In the darkness behind my eyelids, I heard a faint noise. Footsteps. I opened my eyes, but saw no one.

  And then a shadowy figure grabbed me. Put a rag over my mouth, as I struggled against his grasp.

  And as I fell to the ground, just before I lost consciousness, I looked up at my attacker. It wasn’t Jude. It was Clint Ramsey.

  Chapter 11

  I woke up in a dark basement that smelled of mildew. Boxes lined the walls, a few long-abandoned children’s toys peeking out of them. Through the small, high window in the corner, I could see the sun rising—I’d been passed out all night. I was alon
e, and my head was killing me. I tried to stand, only to realize I was tied down, expertly bound to a heavy armchair. At this point, I began to truly panic. I considered calling for help, but I wasn’t sure where I was, how far from anyone who might be able to help me. I felt for my cell phone. It wasn’t in my pocket anymore—who knew where it might be. If Clint had left it behind when he attacked me, no one would be able to track me here.

  Clint—why on earth would Clint Ramsey be kidnapping me? My brain immediately went to the obvious. He’s an Outcast. He’d already told me he made a lot of mistakes. He’s a bad guy. But then I remembered “bad guy” wasn’t as simple as I’d always thought it was. Even Outcasts wouldn’t do things for purely evil reasons, right? And I realized—Clint still doesn’t know what happened to Ciaran. And if he knew I’d been out with him that night . . . of course I’d fall under suspicion. I remembered seeing Clint at the black market that day, the impulse I’d had to go up and tell him the truth—why hadn’t I done it? Forget my own selfish fear; it would have been the right thing to do. And now I was paying for that selfishness.

  Or was I? As the minutes passed, and silence filled the house, a calm came over me—perhaps I’d been left alone. Clint was nowhere to be seen. My initial panic began to subside into more rational preparation. With enough time to formulate a plan, maybe I could escape. I saw a side door—if I could work my way out of these restraints, I guessed I could get away. I examined the twine knotted around my hands, wondered if I could make it fray with enough friction. Thorough experimentation proved that was not likely. I turned then to the chair itself—perhaps it had a weakness I could exploit. And indeed, as I used every bit of my strength to lift the chair off the ground just the tiniest bit, I could hear a scraping sound from inside. Something was broken. If I could stress that broken piece, perhaps I could dismantle whatever I was tied to, perhaps I could get an arm free.